


1, 2, 3 (double dare me as well)

by verdantspace



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Additional tags for ch 4, Alpha Dick, Alpha Jason, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, bc Jason's thighs, caution: Jason Todd's mouth, no cape au, omega tim, srsly we need a warning for That
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-16 02:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12334032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdantspace/pseuds/verdantspace
Summary: In a world where Alphas are put down due to their feral and aggressive nature, Omegas reign over them through enslavement. Tim Drake, an Omega Elite, refuses to conform to the rules of society by taking Alpha slaves to call his own, instead opting to start a research on pack dynamic and how it affects Alphas. This is a story of his meeting with two untamed, uncollared Alphas.





	1. It’d be so so so nice to know you

**Author's Note:**

> Hi so I'm back w/ another ABO dakfhjka wow I rly like this concept don't I.........pls don't attack me :^) but anyWAYS I thought abt how most fics w/ ABO setting (including some of mine) always portrays the Omega as the one discriminated in the society so I kinda? Imagined the opposite?
> 
> This is basically a "what if" scenario that develops itself into a full blown fic, n I'm kinda sorry but also not sorry ehehe. Also this is (predictably) my fave 3p of the DC fandom bc hoooo boy I lov it when the bigger birds dote on my son,, yes guys pls love him thank u<3
> 
> Annnnd without further ado, pls enjoy n tell me how u think! ;)
> 
> P.S. The smut is a self indulgent, short lil thing on chapter 2, n feel free to skip it if that ain't ur thing ;))
> 
> P.P.S. The work title n the chapter titles are taken from Marianas Trench's Truth or Dare.

“Your status is your weapon, little bird,” Shiva said, not a barest hint of exertion in her voice as she pinned Tim to the ground. His arms were locked behind his back, twitching helplessly under the grip of her (deceivingly) slender fingers. “Many people believe that Omegas are defined by weakness, but you must understand just how wrong that notion is.”

She let him go, and he used the small mercy to leap back to his feet. He renewed his stance and braced himself to be in the offense. He wasn’t as quick nor as agile as Shiva was (his training started a tad bit late), but he sure as hell wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“We have room for improvement, and our potential to grow as a person, as a _fighter_ , is as viable as the next person in the room,” she continued as they circled around each other, waiting for the opportunity to attack, “the majority of people refuse to believe this, instead opting to make us society Elites, precious beings who are under constant protection and pampering because of how rare we are. I say, let them think that. Because no one would expect a boy with slender limbs and soft mouth to be able to crack their necks with his bare hands.”

Shiva was looking at him throughout her monologue, clearly projecting him onto the image she had conjured, and Tim shivered. Trust his mother to hire an _assassin_ to tutor him self-defense. Tim wanted to be strong, but he would never use the skills that he had obtained for mindless violence or pointless display of power. He needed to be strong to be able to stand up for himself.

God knew his mother never truly cared about him, and he was aware that at one point of his life, he would be forced to stand on his own two feet.

“You,” Shiva said, halting Tim’s train of thought. She was pointing a finger at him, her eyes glimmering, “are fortunate enough to be born in a family of Elites. That, added with your natural status as an Omega, will be your greatest weapon. They would only expect weakness from you, so when they let their guard down,” she crouched, stretching her hands in front of her in an offensive stance, “that’s when you strike.”

Tim knew the pattern. Shiva, as a tutor, would give him the chance to make the opening attack, but that was the only advantage he would get from her. If he failed to subdue her on the initial attack, she would gain the upper hand; launching into a series of relentless blows that would overwhelm him and guarantee his loss.

That was why he needed to make the most of that chance, and to make every move count.

He used his bo staff as leverage to jump, making it as if he was aiming for her head. However, instead of bringing it down in a vertical blow, Tim adjusted his grip and swung it in a horizontal motion. The action activated the little mechanism he had made within the staff; a little carving at the end, making a hollow cavity similar to that of a whistle. A high pitched, whistling sound rang in the air, breaking Shiva’s focus.

The sound was enough to distract her for a split second, and Tim used that hairbreadth of a timeframe to land within her personal bubble—usually, she would defend this area with tooth and nails—making it easy for him to aim for her weak spot in pointblank range. Tim saw her eyes grew wide in surprise, and utilized the moment to land the finishing blow. The end of his bo staff collided painfully with her shoulder, throwing her off balance. Not wanting to take a chance, Tim regained his footing and slammed his palm into her stomach. Thus, for the first time ever since he had started his training, he was the one to stand over Shiva’s slumped form.

“Use of deception,” she remarked when she had moved into sitting position. She proceeded to sit cross legged, stacking one ankle on top of each other, and Tim couldn’t hold in a sigh of relief because the relaxed pose meant that training was over for today. “You are learning well, little bird. I see you have found your song.”

Tim only gave her a two-fingered salute in response, too tired to even _speak._ He technically won this round, but just how the fuck did she manage to look cool as a cucumber after three hours of gruelling exercise?

 _Fuck, I need to work on my stamina,_ was the last thing that passed through his mind before the last tendrils of awareness seeped right out of his body.

 

***

 

“Your status is your pride, Tim,” Janet Drake said, her fingers working to massage the knots of fatigue away from Tim’s temples. She was an expert at this; driving him to the absolute edge only to reward him at the end, granting him the warmth of her touch. She had established from his early age that the only way he would be able to enjoy her affection was by being obedient, doing exactly what he was told, no questions asked.

The early years had been hard because the child was naturally inquisitive, tireless in his quest to dig for facts and information. That quality, combined with his inherent stubborn streak, had driven Janet mad. Little Tim’s questions had never ceased, and it had been endless strings of _why am I not allowed to play outside? why won’t the servants look me in the eye? why do the books say that Alphas are feral and dangerous? because it doesn’t look that way to me, why do they have to wear those painful looking collars? why do you make dad wear them, mom, is it because he’s an Alpha? why won’t you allow him to play with me?_

Janet had made sure to drill her ideals into Tim, answering each and every one of his questions with what she believed was the absolute truth.

“We are the bringer of life, Tim, the one who holds the wheels of society in our hands,” she explained, “and for that contribution, we are rewarded the highest niche in the society as Omega Elites.”

Tim stayed quiet through the monologue—one that he had heard numerous times in the fifteen years he had lived. He had learned not to question nor negate anything that flowed out of Janet’s mouth, because the ensuing argument and punishment were a mere waste of time.

He looked like he was listening intently, but Janet couldn’t help but to think that something was amiss. She suspected that Tim only wanted her to _think_ that he was finally the son she had always dreamed of him to become; a pretty thing who would grow into the perfect Omega, easing into his rightful place in the society by taking Alpha slaves to do his biddings and cater to his every whim.

Her son might be blessed with slight proportions and demure features, creating the illusion of subservience, but Janet knew him better than that. Tim was especially talented at playing pretend, and she wasn’t naive enough to disregard the possibility of him deceiving her. He had always been a sneaky little boy, after all.

No matter. As long as he continued to play the role that mattered the most: be the perfect Omega Elite to continue her legacy.

She laid a careful finger on his chin and tilted his head up. Their eyes met in a collision of calculating blue gazes, Janet’s electric blues making contact with Tim’s arctic ones. If there was one thing Janet was sure of, it was the strength in her son’s eyes. He inherited her perseverance and sharp mind, and Janet was confident to say that her son would grow up to become a person of importance.

“You are my son,” she stated, threading her fingers through midnight black locks, “and you will bring honor to this family.”

His eyes were a pair of pale blues that reminded Janet of her aquamarine stones, glinting under the dim lighting of his bedroom.

“Yes, mother,” he affirmed, and even though Janet couldn’t be sure if she would approve of his methods, that confirmation was enough for the time being.

 

***

 

Those are the lessons that had been drilled into Tim Drake’s brain ever since he was a toddler.

A bunch of glorified horse dung is what they are, Tim thinks, as he twirls a slim champagne glass in between calloused fingers. He stares at the little bubbles, watches them pop, and wonders why he thinks this way. It’s not like he despises his mother; it’s just a matter of difference in views, especially when it comes to their place in the society.

He looks around at his fellow Omegas; beautiful human beings, all of them, with the best jewelries adorning their bodies and the finest Alpha slaves trailing behind them like lovesick puppies. The sight makes a bile rise in his throat, so he takes a sip of champagne, faking normalcy even though he feels like an alien in the room, albeit a legal one.

He’s forgotten just how much he hates these gatherings.

The bright side is, he won’t get to meet his mother in this particular get together. He’s made sure to study her schedule, and his mother is currently enjoying a vacation in the Caribbean Islands, taking at least five of her Alpha slaves with her, including his dad. His poor, unfortunate dad, the man who’s never been granted the luxury of touching his own son, because his Master hadn’t allowed him to.

Tim used to sneak up at night to approach his dad’s living quarters, leaving little trinkets for him to find. It could be anything; little shells that he found on his trip to the beach, weirdly shaped rocks that he picked up from on the Drake Manor gardens, gummy bears, a page torn from a book that he had read, or one of his coloring pencils. His father had never showed any signs of acknowledging these gifts, but Tim hadn’t expected him to, anyway.

He hasn’t seen him ever since he’s left the house when he’s reached legal age.

Somewhere around last year, there was a mysterious postcard sent to his desk. When Tim flipped it around, the message made him pause. It was a sweet, simple _congratulations, Timmy,_ most likely referring to the publishing of Tim’s latest journal entry.

What had warmed his heart wasn’t the content of the postcard, but the lettering. He hadn’t recognized the handwriting itself, but he’d remembered the particular shade of indigo in which it was written. It was a unique shade that once belonged in his coloring pencil collection. He used to love using that shade to draw, because the color was rare and peculiar and everything that little Tim had loved.

When the pencil had been too short for him to use, he had left it outside of his father’s living quarters, complete with a little message that said _the color is so nice and rare so please keep it!_ in the messy scrawl of a six year-old.

Tim would never know for sure if Jack Drake was the one who sent the mysterious message, but it’s a nice thought to have. The memory brings a smile to his lips, and the parade of garish luxury surrounding him is suddenly a little easier to bear.

All of a sudden, the crowd around him breaks in whispers, and he doesn’t even need to look up to know that the notorious Bruce Wayne has arrived. Tim hides his grin behind his champagne glass and observes the unusual pack with keen eyes.

Bruce Wayne is the epitome of success; CEO, Beta Elite, philanthropist, and equal rights activist, with enough fortune to make him bear the title of ‘The Richest Man in Gotham’ for more than two decades.

What splashes the pages of the tabloids, however, isn’t his achievements or groundbreaking view of the society, but the fact that he’s legally engaged to an Alpha. An Alpha by the name of Clark Kent, whose arm is linked intimately with Bruce’s as they make their way through the crowd.

The couple maneuvers through the sea of people in leisurely steps, wearing easy smiles on their faces. Clark has his arm around Bruce’s waist, and Tim observes as the other man allows the contact, letting Clark’s arm guide him as they exchange pleasantries with the other guests.

It goes on for about five minutes until the couple finds a quiet corner to enjoy their champagnes and little snacks. They look relaxed and content in each other’s arms, even though Tim knows that most of the people in the room are still watching them like hawks.

Tim watches as Clark drops his head to whisper something into Bruce’s ear, something that makes a crease appear on Bruce’s forehead. At his partner’s reaction, Clark only waves a dismissive hand and proceeds to bow his head. Tim knows the gesture, and it doesn’t take long for Bruce to follow.

Bruce’s long, thick fingers weaves through the short hair on Clark’s nape and holds on tight, making the Alpha droop further into Bruce’s embrace. The Beta welcomes it with an air of familiarity, letting Clark rest his forehead on his shoulder as hands tighten around his waist. It doesn’t take a genius to know that Clark is inhaling Bruce’s scent. One that Clark is very fond of, if the contented expression on his face is anything to go by.

Bruce only scoffs in response, and Tim sees his mouth move as he says something—probably something reprimanding—that makes Clark’s body shake in quiet chuckles. When Clark loosens his embrace to look into Bruce’s eyes, still laughing, he doesn’t give the man a chance to avoid him as he moves to breathe his laughter into Bruce’s mouth. Bruce has a split second to look exasperated before he returns the kiss with remarkable gentleness; his fingers still perched on Clark’s bare nape.

It’s an exchange that speaks of long established relationship, mutual respect, and so much _love_ that Tim’s cheeks go warm just by watching. Bruce doesn’t look like he cares that they’re practically under the spotlight, though, because he’s wearing a haughty smirk when Clark finally lets go of him.

Trust Bruce Wayne to look like a boss after engaging in an act that is deemed scandalous by the masses.

Allowing that kind of intimacy with an Alpha—one who doesn’t wear a collar—is almost unheard of in their society, and Tim can already hear the hissed criticisms and whispered gossips. He rolls his eyes at an Omega lady who’s practically foaming at the mouth, her fingers clawing at her Alpha’s collared neck as if to reassert her control over him. Pathetic, Tim thinks, as he pops another piece of eclair into his mouth.

It baffles him how most of these people seem to think that mutual love and respect in a relationship is some kind of an _abomination._ As for him, he’s eternally grateful for the couple’s arrival because they are such a sight for sore eyes.

Speaking of sights for sore eyes, there goes Bruce Wayne’s young wards, and Tim prepares himself for another wave of poorly concealed hysteria to settle among the crowd.

He observes as the Omegas in the room practically drool over Dick Grayson and Jason Todd’s entrance, some of them shamelessly eyeing them like they’re pieces of meat. Said Alphas pay them no mind, however, as they stroll into the center of the ballroom—Dick with a huge grin on his face and Jason with a barely concealed scowl—to catch up with their legal guardian.

Bruce regards his sons with a small smile before leaning in to accept Dick’s hug and reaching up to brush surreptitious fingers on Jason’s nape. Jason has a mere one inch on Bruce, and Tim watches as the scowl on his face loosens under Bruce’s attention.

Dick doesn’t seem to miss the interaction, because he turns to Jason with a mischievous grin before saying, in a bright, boisterous voice, “aw, you’re so weak for Bruce!”

From his vantage point, Tim can’t see Jason’s reply, but he can see the elbow digging into Dick’s side, and has to suppress a chuckle. Dick reciprocates by ruffling Jason’s coiffed hair (the younger man wrenches his hand away with a pointed glare), and proceeds to turn his attention to Clark, who’s watching the exchange with amused eyes.

As his partner is engaged in an excitable conversation with Dick, Bruce lets his eyes sweep through the crowd. It only takes a moment before his gaze lands on Tim, and the younger man offers him a grin and a salute.

Bruce shakes his head in exasperation before he makes beckoning gestures, and Tim can feel his heart make an inevitable jump inside of his ribcage. Tim and Bruce aren’t strangers; they’ve met numerous times to talk about the funding for Tim’s research, which has been generously provided by the Wayne Foundation.

However, he can’t help but to worry that his appearance in Bruce’s inner circle would be considered as an intrusion. Tim had spent the last year completing his research in Borneo and he has never been a social butterfly to begin with, so he doubts that the rest of Bruce’s pack knows he exists.

They are a very unusual pack, indeed, a Beta surrounded by three uncollared, untamed Alphas. The majority of people see them as deviants, because Bruce Wayne doesn’t use the socially acceptable methods to keep his Alphas in check.

As he is now in the final stages of his research, Tim can say with confidence that there is no need to keep Alphas ‘in check’ to begin with. Certainly not by using the most common, inhumane method; by collaring them. Bruce’s approach, however unusual it may seem, had been Tim’s inspiration to start an in depth research about pack dynamic, including the effects it might have on the members’ behavior.

What he’s seeing in front of him is a prime example of what he has studied during his time in Borneo; a healthy and balanced pack dynamic. In his knowledge, Bruce’s pack hasn’t integrated an Omega within their midst—by choice or by chance, Tim doesn’t know—and for an Omega like himself to just casually walk into their inner circle...well. Let’s just say it may not be very well received, especially with how most Omegas behave in their society.

“Tim!” Bruce’s crisp voice booms through the crowd, unexpectedly loud, “get over here, son, don’t make me come and get you myself.”

Tim winces. He’s forgotten just how persistent Bruce is.

Now that the attention has shifted on him, Tim has no choice but to obey. He sighs and braces himself, opting to project a sense of professional detachment to mask the anxiety creeping up his spine. He walks to where they are, pointedly focusing on Bruce and offering the older man a small, hesitant smile.

“Good evening, Bruce,” he says, keeping his voice clipped and polite, because the Alphas are now eyeing him. Oh my God, those are Dick Grayson and Jason Todd’s eyes on _him._ He can practically feel the other Omegas glaring at him with palpable envy because Bruce’s sons are especially known for their propensity to not get involved with Omegas unless strictly necessary.

Bruce only stares at him throughout his greeting, and Tim can feel cold sweat forming on his temples because holy shit, was that too much? To his surprise, Bruce only laughs in reply. “What are you being so formal for?” He says before leaning down to envelop him in a hug.

Any trace of worry and anxiety he might have felt earlier is washed clean in the wake of Bruce’s hug. Tim closes his eyes and inhales his scent, a pleasant mixture of freshly pressed clothes and subtle cologne, and relaxes instantly. He wonders if this is how an embrace from a father feels like, but quickly diminishes the thought because he has nothing to compare it to.

When they finally let go of each other, Tim allows himself a smile. “It’s nice seeing you, Bruce.”

“Likewise,” Bruce claps a strong hand on his shoulder and lets it settle there, its weight comforting. Tim suspects that the older man has already read through his nervousness and does the gesture as means of support. He should _never_ underestimate a Beta who deals with three _(three!)_ Alphas on a daily basis.

“Everyone,” Bruce addresses his pack, and Tim sucks in a breath, “I would like you to meet Tim Drake.”

“Hello, Tim,” Clark is the first one to offer his hand, and Tim stares at the way his big hand engulfs Tim’s own. It doesn’t make him feel belittled or threatened, though, because Clark exudes an air of security and perseverance and warmth, making it easy for Tim to feel safe in his presence. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Oh no,” Tim says in mock dread, “I hope I haven’t ruined my own reputation before the first impressions.”

Clark laughs at that, a full bellied sound that reflects nothing but pure joy. “Don’t worry, kiddo,” he assures, “only the best ones. How was your time in Borneo?”

The Alpha looks like he’s genuinely interested, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. Tim has to remind himself that Clark is an esteemed reporter, the protégé to Pulitzer Prize winning reporter Lois Lane. To no one’s surprise, everybody and their cousins had been all over Lois and her decision to take an Alpha under her wing. She had slammed all of them with an elaborate article on how she feels about the bigots of their society, and how she’s decidedly _not_ one of them. Tim has that article framed on his office.

“Warm and wet,” he shrugs, grinning up at Clark, “the rainforest is a thing of beauty and mystery, the people are much more enlightened than the ones I meet on a daily basis, and I got to fight mosquitoes with the Mortal Kombat theme song playing in the background. So all in all; pretty cool.”

Clark barks out another laugh and turns to Bruce. “This one’s a keeper, Bruce.”

Bruce’s mouth curls at that, but his eyes still carry a fond gleam when he says, “I don’t need another troublemaker around, Clark, certainly not one with an upgraded skill of mosquito hunting.”

They all break into laughter, and Tim thanks whatever deity is up there because this is easier than he thought—

“The rainforest?” A voice cuts through his train of thought, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for him to realize that Jason has spoken. “I thought Omegas only leave their throne rooms for parties or orgies or some shit.”

Tim recognizes the sarcasm for what it is. Bruce lets out a sigh, followed with a strained, _Jason, please,_ and Tim appreciates his worry but if he’s being perfectly honest, he’s not offended in the least. It’s a well-founded jab, anyway, and Tim truthfully doesn’t feel the need to defend his fellow Omegas because it is what it is. He counts to three in his head before deflecting the only way he knows how; by throwing a terrible joke.

“Who says it wasn’t an orgy?” He challenges, returning Jason’s gaze without flinching (and mentally patting himself on the back for it), “those mosquitoes were _all over me_ and they took turns, man, penetrating me with those suckers and draining me of bodily fluids, so yeah. A _new_ definition of orgy.”

All of them are silent for a full five seconds until Dick breaks it by letting out a full blown guffaw. He claps Jason’s back a few times and leans on his brother for support before turning mirthful eyes to Tim.

“Oh, you’re definitely unique, little one,” he says in between laughter, and Tim feels his cheeks heat up because this is _Dick Grayson._

“I’m Dick,” he gestures to himself as if he needs an introduction, “and Grumpy McGrump over here is Jason. Please excuse him, Tim, he’s been in a _mood_ since we’ve arrived.”

Jason frowns at that. “Toldja I didn’t wanna go to no party, Dickie, so you gotta fuckin’ deal with my fuckin’ moods,” he grumbles as he shrugs Dick off his shoulder. He fixes blue-green eyes at Tim and holds his gaze. Tim prides himself for not budging under Jason’s scrutiny (only by the skin of his teeth because those eyes are _intense_ ), and tilts his head to the side, faking an innocent smile.

Jason, apparently, sees right through the farce because he only scoffs before saying, “ya ain’t like any other ‘Mega in here, huh? Anyone ever toldja yer weird?”

That pulls a snicker out of Tim. “Only on days that ends with a ‘y’.”

The quality of Jason’s answering grin is, dare Tim says, genuine. From his vantage point, Tim can almost see the softening of his brows and a hint of teeth peeking between his lips. Putting that kind of expression on Jason Todd is oddly rewarding, and Tim feels an army of butterflies churning in his belly.

“Not bad, kid,” Jason finally concedes, “this guy here gave up my name so whatever. You can call me that or just Jay.”

Wow, _Jay._ Tim is on the verge of having a full-blown conniption so maybe it’s best that he doesn’t use that particular nickname just yet. He will use it someday, he promises himself. Someday, without getting the urge to internally implode just by saying _one_ syllable.

He’s been so focused on Jason that he’s almost forgotten about Dick (how _could_ he), who’s now looking at him with an amiable smile that speaks of nothing but safe and friendly, if not for the sharpness in his eyes. Tim stomps down another wave of panic because is that _interest_ he’s seeing?

As an Omega, Tim is no stranger to Alphas showing him interest, but these are Bruce Wayne’s infamous wards. As Alphas, Dick Grayson and Jason Todd have a reputation for being uncollared, untamed, and most importantly, for being hot as hell.

Many have tried to seduce them, be it Omegas or Betas, only to be met with timely rejections. If what he reads on the internet is anything to go by, Dick and Jason have been in relationships, but none of them had lasted long enough to be significant. Tim actually knows one of Dick exes, a hacker genius by the name of Barbara Gordon (one he has hacking battle royales with, because Barbara is _savage_ and Tim loves the exercise), who is now happily engaged with one Dinah Lance.

Barbara doesn’t really talk about her relationship with Dick, but she never put him in a bad light, not even after their breakup.

As for Jason, well. Tim doesn’t really know much about Jason except for his apparent aversion toward Omegas.

For the two of them to be looking at him, _focusing on him,_ dissecting him with their eyes like he has somehow piqued their curiosity is too fucking much. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the attention or anything, never look at a gift horse in the mouth and all that, but he can’t help but to feel bewildered.

From what he’s seen of their interactions, Dick and Jason are—

“Bruce, it’s Diana!” Clark’s loud voice cuts through his deduction, abruptly bringing him to the present.

Clark is waving at a beautiful lady with lustrous black hair and the sweetest smile Tim has ever seen. When the lady waves back, Clark gets impatient, tugging at Bruce’s arm to gain his attention. The annoyed sigh that leaves Bruce’s lips must be his nth for the night, but he still indulges Clark, touching the man’s wrist to hold him off for a second.

“Behave, boys,” is Bruce’s last warning before he lets himself be tagged along.

 _Nice timing, man,_ Tim curses inwardly before taking another glass of champagne for something to occupy his hand with. He doesn’t have any intention to get wasted, but takes a sip, anyway. He feels like he would need the liquid courage.

“So it’s just you and two big _bad_ Alphas,” Jason drawls, and Tim eyes him through the rim of his glass, “you don’t feel the need to run, Mr. Omega Elite, Sir?”

“I’m aware, Jason,” Tim counters, struggling to keep his tone clipped, “and I’m not scared, so don’t give yourself too much credit. It’s nothing I haven’t experienced before. And please, for the love of God, don’t call me that.”

In response, Jason breathes out a little snigger. “‘m teasin’, Timmers. Point taken, though, never address ya by yer fancy lil’ title.”

Before Tim has the chance to reply, Dick beats him to it.

“But we’re two _untamed_ Alphas, you know,” Dick goads, the dazzling grin on his face offsetting his mischievous tone, “uncollared, too. You have to be more careful of your surroundings, Tim.”

Tim notices the real concern at the end of Dick’s sentence, and only shrugs in response. “I have ways to protect myself if push comes to shove.” At this, Jason raises his eyebrows as if intrigued, and Tim continues, “Thanks for the concern, but I can handle myself just fine. Besides, why would I worry about my chastity or whatever when you guys only have eyes for one another?”

He lays it out casually, evenly, treating it as another fact that he’s uncovered to mask the thundering of his own heart. Dick and Jason’s reactions are so _gratifying,_ Tim thinks, feeling his pulse speed up. Is there something wrong with him for enjoying the effect his words have on them?

But my, how the tables have turned.

Dick’s whole disposition does a full 180 degrees, going from playfully mischievous to rigidly alert in a split second. His training and experience as a police officer are pushed to the fore, his whole attention directed solely at Tim. He’s looking at him with critical eyes, and Tim has a sneaking suspicion that this is the very first time Dick looks at him. Really looks at _him_ and not just what he represents, not the unorthodox researcher or the quirky Omega.

The eyes on him are _electric,_ so emotionally charged, and Tim has to suppress a shiver as he realizes that this is how Officer Grayson regards criminals. It’s so far removed from how Dick usually carries himself—all friendly hugs and brilliant smiles—that Tim forgets how to breathe for a split second.

Jason apparently prefers the more direct approach, because he immediately bristles, using his height as advantage to tower over Tim when he growls out, “How the _fuck_ do you—”

“Jay,” is Dick’s quiet reprimand, which, well. Pretty much confirms it for Tim.

Tim isn’t the type of Omega who derives pleasure from collaring Alphas, but this kind of power? The one that makes two of the most desirable Alphas of their generation look at him as if he was a potential threat?

He can get used to this, he thinks as he leans his elbow on a table, gazing up at the Alphas with a challenging smirk.

 

***

 

What the fuck is this little Omega playing at.

Tim Drake is looking up at Jason and Dick without an ounce of fear in his eyes, wearing a cocksure smirk that Jason wants to wipe clean off his face. He still can’t decide if he wants to do it by punching said face or kiss it off his mouth, because as much as he hates to admit, he’s still in a state of _shock._

Who can blame him, though, because he’s never seen an Omega quite like the one standing in front of him. He’s met many Omegas throughout his life; ones who think that they are Kings and Queens of the world, flaunting their beauty and luxury in everyone’s face, thinking they’re so favored and _desirable._

Jason always feels an incomprehensible amount of elation every time he turns one down.

But this one, he can’t figure him out. He’s seen him coming from afar; a pretty little thing wrapped in a nice suit and smelling so _fine_ Jason can probably scent him from the other end of the room. Nevertheless, he didn’t let the lovely front misguide him, because he’s seen firsthand of the cruelties that Omegas are capable of.

But then he saw Bruce gather the smaller body into his arms, and thought, _oh, this one’s different._

(He sees flashbacks of a family dinner, of a smiling Bruce, genuine fondness in his eyes as he talks about an Omega researcher that’s been funded by the Wayne Foundation. The Omega is a brilliant scientist, a powerhouse in his field of study, and one who devotes himself to the cause that matters; the efforts for the realization of equal rights. He goes by the name—)

Tim Drake.

Apparently, Tim Drake is so much more than beauty and brains. He’s got _guts,_ too, and Jason isn’t sure if an individual should have that much power.

Dickie is in full _Officer Grayson_ mode, body tense and muscles taut, as if readying himself for whatever might happen next. For untrained eyes, it might look like Dick is the one intimidating Tim with his superior physique and disposition, every inch of his body screaming _ruffled Alpha ready to strike,_ but Jason knows better.

He sees it in his partner’s eyes; a slight tremor in his baby blues, a hint of _fear_ because they simply cannot risk exposure. Dick and Jason’s relationship is never supposed to become public knowledge, not yet, especially with the things that are at stake. A hint of that fear permeates the air, and as soon as Jason scents it, he longs to take Dick into his arms and stroke his fingers along his nape, let him inhale the familiar scent of partner and pack and _family—_

But he can’t do it, not in public.

It seems that Tim also senses the shift in the air, because his eyes suddenly grow comically wide. He gasps and drops the smirk, opening his mouth as if to say something—

When the table—y’know, the one that’s supporting the runt’s whole weight—is suddenly moved from its previously (deceivingly) sturdy position.

The only thing that prevents Tim from slamming his perfect teeth on the cold granite floor is Dick’s honed reflexes. The older Alpha is fast to react, catching Tim by his elbow and supporting his imbalanced body, saving him from a potentially nasty fall.

Jason is still too startled to make any substantial move, but he has the presence of mind to notice that the table that Tim had been leaning on is actually a fucking _trolley._ The server who pulled the thing right from under Tim’s weight has long left the scene, blissfully oblivious to the potential mess he’s left behind.

“Not. A word.” Tim hisses from gritted teeth, and Jason finally _loses_ it.

He lets his laughter bubble over, obnoxiously loud and bordering on hysterics. “Oh, shit,” he manages between gasped breaths, “fuckin’ hell, sugar, that was _gold._ Oh my God, the look on yer fuckin’ face,” he reaches a hand to tap a finger on Tim’s burning cheek, “wish I had that on camera to play it on repeat, babe.”

The heat under his fingertip only intensifies, and Jason is quick to pull away before he gives into temptation to smush those cheeks between his palms. Oh, this little one is so _cute_ and _amusing,_ he snickers.

“Jason, don’t be rude,” Dick, ever the gentleman, admonishes him, hands still perched on Tim’s arm. Dickie’s a fuckin’ faker is what he is, because Jason can see him biting along the insides of his cheeks, struggling to keep the laughter in. “Tim still needs to, you know, _steady himself._ ”

When the Alphas break into matching guffaws, Tim can only look at them in utter disbelief and betrayal. “Jesus, you guys are _assholes_. Wait ‘till your extensive fanclub hears about this.”

The threat is delivered with a grumble, Tim’s whole face scrunched up in annoyance. That is positively the cutest sight Jason has seen in a whole _week._ Nice to know that Mr. Perfection on a Stick is actually kind of a walking embarrassment, one who is far more _expressive_ than Jason had initially thought.

“Go ahead, sugar,” Jason says casually, dismissing the threat, “you’ll just be adding another bullet point to my bad boy repertoire.”

Tim huffs—his cheeks are actually puffing out, oh my God, Jason is positively _dying—_ and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Dick, who had been holding onto his arm, only winces in apology.

“Sorry, Tim,” he says, casually touching the Omega’s forearm in a placating gesture, “...but you really surprised us with what you said, and— I don’t know, that whole trolley thing seemed like, a _divine intervention_ to break the tension or something.”

“Oh,” Tim breathes out, and his expression shifts into something like remorse. “I— I’m sorry, guys, that was really rude of me. It’s just... When I was in Borneo, I was so used to seeing Alpha couples, y’know, most of them warriors who bond over mutual respect of each other’s prowess in the battlefield.” He lets out a little laugh, soft and fond, “well, things are mostly peaceful now, but these Alpha warriors still honor the customs and traditions by not setting limitations to anyone who wants to bond; as long as the decision is based on mutual consent. It’s a thing of beauty, really, and it was such an honor to be able to live among them and bear witness to their celebration of love and freedom.”

Tim’s eyes take on a shimmering quality, a thin film of gloss settling over them. He looks nostalgic and a little entranced, like he truly misses the land and the people and everything that he has experienced in Borneo.

Jason feels a ghostly presence settling itself behind his ribcage, stealing the air from his lungs and making it that much _harder_ to breathe. He sneaks a glance at Dick only to see that the other Alpha is also rooted on the spot, listening to the Omega with rapt attention.

Well, shit. This is uncharted territory.

“I swear I have no intention to offend you, I just. In Borneo, I’ve seen so many Alphas who are mates and I’ve observed how they interact with each other, the signs and all. So when I saw the two of you I was just like _oh, there’s something more._ I’m sorry if the observation came off as rude—dude, it totally did, didn’t it, yikes, I’m sorry—but I just wanna let you know that it’s no problem, y’know? We have the right to love and be with whoever we choose, regardless of gender and status.”

Jason blinks once, twice, because holy shit, this kid can _talk._ The ever talkative Dick is surprisingly silent by his side, and Tim apparently takes it as a bad sign because he grimaces and flickers his eyes to the ground for a second before facing the Alphas again.

“Wow, okay, it’s totally cool if you don’t wanna see my face ever again, so I’ll just be goi—”

“Tim. Timmy, wait.” It’s Dickie, unconsciously using his Alpha voice. The sound is deep and honest, a plea for the Omega to _not leave just yet._ Tim’s inner Omega inevitably reacts, evident from the way he halts his steps brusquely, turning back to look at Dick with apprehensive eyes. His lips are curled, though, a bit of agitation over that fact that it had been so easy for Dick to get him to turn around.

“It’s okay, Tim, I’m not offended,” Dick assures, his voice taking on a softer quality, “and I’m sure Jay’s also fine. Aren’t you, Jay?”

At the address, Jason lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Kinda pissed at first, Timmers, but that trolley episode more than made up for it.”

Jason winks at the smaller man, and a hesitant smile blooms on Tim’s lips, his relief palpable.

“But you know this world we live in, and the two of us,” Dick gestures to himself and Jason, “can’t be seen together in that light. At least not yet.”

Tim sighs, the sound full of pent up frustration. “I understand, and fuck, that’s so messed up, isn’t it? You should be able to be with whoever you like, and— God, those pissflaps _collars._ I wanna burn every single one of them, no kidding.”

Dick chuckles, casually breaching Tim’s personal bubble and proceeding to pat the Omega’s shoulder when Tim shows no sign of discomfort. “You and me both, kiddo. But you’re also fighting the good fight aren’t you? Can’t even imagine what kind of hardships you’ve had to endure, what with you belonging in a family of Omega Elites and all.”

“Nothing compared to you, I’m sure,” Tim slides his eyes over Dick and Jason, and the strength Jason finds in his gaze is nothing he can associate with being Alpha, Beta, or Omega. It’s something raw and passionate, but at the same time also completely humane and benign, and at that moment, Jason feels like he can trust Tim Drake with _anything._ “I can’t guarantee success, but my research is entering the final stages, and the findings could possibly be the first actual steps toward the elimination of _this_ system.”

Tim gestures at the charade going on around them. Dick’s eyes soften even further, and when he speaks, Jason recognizes the timbre he uses. It’s the one he uses whenever he’s going all _big brother_ on someone; firm, compassionate, and all-encompassing.

“I’m sure it will contribute a great deal, Tim,” Dick says, and Jason can practically see stars in Tim’s eyes at the acknowledgement, “you have no obligation to do so, but you’ve done such a great job. Thank you.”

Before Tim can refute the expression of gratitude, Jason takes a step forward and grins down at him. He begins to speak, and the sincerity in his voice surprises even himself, “what a fine ‘Mega.”

Tim’s reaction is the widening of arctic blue eyes, a soft gasp leaking out of plush lips when he finds himself bracketed by the two Alphas. A tiny hint of Omega sweetness permeates through the air, a scent that Jason can now easily identify with _Tim Drake._ It’s a mix of cream and vanilla on coffee, of printer ink and paperbacks, and Jason has to keep himself in check not to greedily _inhale._

“Also, uh, about this little _thing,_ ” Dick looks sheepish when he grins at Jason for a split second before turning his attention back on Tim, “it’d be a real pain in the ass if this goes out so let’s keep this—”

“—our little secret, yeah?” Jason finishes his partner’s sentence, and has to muffle a laugh at the way Tim just. Stares.

“Um.” The Omega finally manages after a whole minute, shaking his head to clear it of whatever image he has conjured in that mind of his (God, what Jason wouldn’t give to take a peek), before finally nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, guys, I mean. Pinky swear. Scout’s honor. Unbreakable vow, whatever. Lips, here,” Tim points at his own mouth and makes exaggerated zipping motions, “suuuper duuuper sealed.”

Dick and Jason share a look and a laugh above Tim’s head before steering the youngest to the direction of the buffet. The party still suck balls, but at least the food doesn’t, Jason thinks, and proceeds to thank whatever deity is up there for the small comforts of life.


	2. (Be our little) dirty little secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the meeting; for both parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The promised smut EHE it's srsly short tho I'm gomen

Tim walks into his apartment with a sigh on his lips, not even bothering to turn on the light before heading toward the bathroom. He leaves a messy trail of shirts, suit jacket, tie, and pants behind him, ending just before the entrance of the cubicle.

The heater works perfectly, but he doesn’t bother to wait and showers in record time, getting himself as clean as possible under the cold water. He bemoans the loss of the Alphas’ (Dick and Jason’s) unique scents that had managed to latch themselves on him when they were talking at the party, but the thought of going to bed with their combined scents on him feels too much like disrespect, so he scrubs himself clean and uses his body soap liberally.

He washes off and changes quickly, having every intention to keep his mind away from the Alphas and go the fuck to sleep. He launches himself onto the bed without properly drying his hair and waits for sleep to take him.

The blissful oblivion doesn’t come easy, and Tim curses his luck. His eyes are wide open and he somehow still feels fidgety, so he wiggles around in bed for a bit before smothering his face into a pillow.

He needs to get his mind off things, he thinks.

That’s how he ends up on the couch, munching on potato chips as Hannibal plays on the screen in front of him. He makes it through four episodes before he starts fidgeting again. He groans and forcefully closes his eyes, willing the sleep to come to him, _goddamnit, it’s time for some shut eye._ It’s no use because no matter how hard he tries, the itch is still there and he can’t seem to sleep it off.

With a sigh that’s heavier than the world, he finally acknowledges the restlessness for what it is. It’s the need to get off.

Tim frowns, because he knows that he’s physically _drained_ from attending that gathering, and finishing four episodes of Hannibal is no easy feat, no matter how good the show is. Even so, his body still _craves_ it; the delicious buildup and the eventual release, the satisfying numbness that comes with it, and it really is no use denying it at this point.

He’s really, really affected by Dick and Jason’s scents. Heck, their combined pheromone is still affecting him _now,_ and they’re not even in the same room anymore. He frowns at himself, because just three hours ago in the bathroom, he was thinking about how he _shouldn’t_ use them as jerk off material.

Fuck, he’s usually not this indecisive.

He curls his lips in distaste at his own behavior, but eventually succumbs to the call of his body.

“Sorry, guys,” he offers to the ceiling, knowing full well that Dick and Jason will never know of this, but still needing the moral closure that comes with the apology. That’s when the thought hit him; they’ll never know, unless he decides to divulge this particular information to them.

He groans at that, feeling himself grow harder in the confines of the boxer briefs.

He remembers one of those articles he sees on the internet, one that encourages the act of masturbation, describing it as a kind of reward that deserves to be done in leisure while servicing oneself under the best atmosphere. Well, fuck, he doesn’t have time for that kind of luxury, so might as well whip one out right here. The sofa is Crypton, anyways, so he doesn’t have to worry about stains.

He begins with something that he’s establishes as a routine, by sucking on his own fingers to get them wet. He loves the feeling of warm and wet on his skin, so he lathers his digits with as much saliva as he can manage before he finally trails down.

The fingers of his left hand land on a nipple, twisting and pinching and pulling at the nub until it’s peaked while his right hand goes straight to his dick. Tim is frustrated enough as it is, so the touch is a blessing, making his body unfurl with relief.

He jacks himself off in moderate speed—the way he likes it best while doing it alone—twisting his wrist and squeezing the base whenever he comes too close. Releasing the hold he has on his nipple, he trickles his fingers up his chest, his throat, until it finally lands on the back of his neck. Long fingers circle around his nape, teasing the soft skin of his scalp before finally digging in.

He gasps at his own merciless treatment, hissing at the sensation of fingernails clawing in. Through the haze of pain/pleasure, his mind registers the small flaw in the gesture; how the fingers aren’t big enough, aren’t _powerful_ enough. It doesn’t take long until the fantasy manifests itself; a faceless, genderless stranger with big and strong hand, pushing down on his neck and holding him still as he pleasures himself.

That’s when he starts to leak.

The wetness seeps through cotton in record time, making him whine as his body prepares itself for intrusion, for a _knot._ He wiggles around on the couch, pushing his legs up to finally get his fingers _there,_ where he needs it most.

As he continues massaging the tender skin of his entrance and clutching at his abused nape—oh God, there will be nail marks in the morning—the anonymous figure that he’s been imagining fades into the background, giving way for a more concrete thought.

How do two Alphas do it? He wonders, not for the first time. A treacherous, instinct-driven part of his mind can’t stop thinking about it; of powerful bodies in a tangle of muscular limbs, of chests and mouths and cocks and _knots_ pressed together, of growls and purrs resonating through the room, signaling the Alphas’ urgency and impatience.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, desperately hoping that the image won’t transform into—

—caramel colored skin, a healthy glow to it, a sign on Romani descent, touching against sunburnt skin, with tan lines and pale patches and freckles all over. Suddenly it’s _Dick and Jason_ and the breath is taken from Tim in a second of pure agony (bliss).

Oh, God.

The man in Tim is aghast, disturbed by the idea of using two respectable men (who are in a relationship _with each other,_ Tim, you shameless fuck) as wanking material. He hates himself for reducing the two of them to the functionality of their bodies, when he knows that they are so much more. He’s no better than his fellow Omegas, the ones who overlook Dick and Jason’s qualities as a human and choose to regard them as mere playthings to own.

Disgraceful.

But another part of him, the Omega, the one with _needs_ and _raw honesty,_ whines aloud, demands to be pushed to the fore because it’s been _so long._

It’s been so long since he’s allowed himself to be touched, to touch back, and to fully embrace his instincts and lets himself be taken care of. The animal hungers for it; the Alphas’ heated gazes, their touches and purrs and _acknowledgement,_ the assurance that Tim is indeed a good Omega, no matter what his mother says.

The inner turmoil leaves him angry and frustrated, and it only serves to spike the heat inside of his body to dangerous levels. Fuck, he is so not looking forward to his next Heat. Better get this over with, then.

Equipped with a new determination to get off as soon as possible, Tim speeds up the hand he has on his cock, not bothering to tease himself anymore. He’s slowly pressing a finger into his hole, when—

_‘Look at ‘im, Dickie, he’s leaking so much.’_

Tim inhales sharply, lifting his head and shaking it to and fro to find the source of that voice. He takes a shaky breath when he realizes that it’s the manifestation of his fantasy, embodying the voice of Jason Todd.

He represses the whine that threatens to leak out of his mouth, because fuck, his brain is _too much_ sometimes.

 _‘That’s it, babe, let it out,_ ’ the disembodied voice continues, _‘let_ all _yer sweetness out, ‘cause we need a lot, yeah? Ya got two mouths to feed, here, Timmers, ‘n both of us ‘re nasty, greedy, lil’ bastards, you feel me?’_

Tim groans out loud, smothering the sound on the cushion because the thought of Jason’s plush mouth on his hole, sucking and licking and—

 _‘Poor baby,’_ and this time it’s _Dick,_ and Tim honestly can’t decide if the tone of his voice is genuine or teasing. _‘Don’t torture yourself, sweetheart, come on. It’s been so long, hasn’t it? Your body needs the release, Tim, so can you listen to me? Get your fingers inside, Timmy. Please.’_

And it feels like a thing that Dick Grayson would do; sensing his partner’s needs and pushing them to fulfill them with words of encouragements. His plea makes Tim warm all over, so he throws caution to the wind and pushes two fingers inside of himself, flinching a bit at too much too soon.

He’s already so wet and receptive, though, so massaging his insides to accommodate two is relatively easy. Especially with the encouraging whispers and growls that echo around him, no matter if they are only in his head.

 _‘That’s it,’_ Jason drawls, _‘shit, that looks so good, babe, spread yer fingers a bit, let me look atcha_ — _yeah, fuck, so fuckin’ wet aren’tcha? Yer makin’ a mess over here.’_

Fuck, if Jason Todd actually talks as dirty as this, he deserves an award of some sort.

 _‘Such a good Omega,’_ Dick purrs, striking all the right cords along Tim’s spine, _‘thank you for listening to us, Timmy, you’re so sweet, so good for us. Your cock’s all lonely, isn’t it? Can you touch it for me?’_

“Yes, Dick,” flows out of his mouth without preamble, and Tim feels his blush intensify. _He’s not actually here, stupid,_ he berates himself. But he follows the request, anyway, carefully touching his cock—has he ever been this hard before?—and starts moving again, no holds barred.

 _‘Oh, shoot, that looks good,’_ is Jason again, and Tim imagines him whispering it against the skin of his thigh, maybe laying some bites there for remembrance—

_‘Ya feelin’ good, sugar? C’mon, babe, let us know, yeah? Wanna know that yer feelin’ good, Tim, so we know we’re bein’ good to ya as well.’_

A phantom touch on his hip, and Tim grows weak.

“‘S good,” he cries, “so good, Jason, ah!” The tip of his finger brushes that spot inside of him, and he can feel himself leaking—from both his cock and his hole. It’s getting filthier, messier, and Tim can’t take it anymore.

“Please!” He begs, getting louder in his desperation, “please, Jason, _Jay,_ ” and there it is, the nickname that he didn’t dare to use back at the party, spilling out of him in between ragged moans, “Dick, please.”

He can only imagine how pathetic he looks right now; two fingers in his ass, jackhammering into his prostate and making filthy, squelching sounds, eyes glossy, hair disheveled and sweaty, face tight with the strain of holding out. His other hand is circled around the base of his cock, preventing him from finally reaching the peak because his inner Omega has taken control, and it won’t let him come, no. Not without permission from the Alphas.

 _‘Perfect, sweetheart,’_ Dick growls, and there’s a tinge to his voice that Tim has never heard before; the deep, dark characteristic of _Alpha male,_ and Tim would have whimpered in fear if he didn’t know that this is Dick. Even so deep into his inner Alpha, Tim somehow knows that Dick would still be benevolent.

 _‘So, so perfect. Thank you so much, Tim, for listening, for_ obeying, _you’re so lovely_ — _’_

 _‘Ain’t nobody as pretty as you are right now, Timmy, fuck, don’t let anyone else see_ — _’_

 _‘Come now, baby,’_ Dick finally commands, _‘come now, you deserve it. Such a good Omega.’_

The onslaught of words and sensation finally takes over him, rendering him helpless under the force of one of the most intense orgasms of his life. He’s positively shaking, wetting the couch with sweat and come and slick, scratching the cushion as he tries hard to subdue the tremors.

Broken whines and choked sobs echo through the room, and Tim bites onto his bottom lip when he finally regains enough brain capacity to register the sounds as his own. The pain helps and he finally quiets down, only letting out occasional gasps as he comes down from the high.

When the whole thing is finally over, Tim stretches out and stares at the unimpressive ceiling, feeling incredibly guilty. _Never again,_ he promises himself, he would never do that ever again, not even in a moment of weakness and need.

Dick and Jason deserve to be respected like the brilliant human beings they are. Tim clenches his fist and once again whispers an apology in his heart, knowing the futility of the effort but still needing it to soothe his conscience. The interest they had shown at the party was nothing more but curiosity, further fanned by an Alpha’s natural reaction to seeing an Omega. Besides, why would they look at someone like him when they already have each other?

 _They don’t want you, Tim,_ a voice reprimands in his head, _no one wants a disappointment such as yourself._

He winces, buries the old pain in the recesses of his mind, and finally closes his eyes. He succumbs to slumber in less than five seconds, his (traitorous) mind still supplying him with the phantom sensations of Dick’s fingers in his hair and Jason’s hand on his hip.

 

***

 

They leave the party without much of a hassle after saying goodbye to Tim, and the walk to the car is short and uneventful. Bruce takes the car keys from Clark and plops down onto the driver’s seat without a word, the rest of his pack following after him and settling into their respective seats; Clark on the passenger, Dick and Jason at the back.

When the tinted window is rolled up and the car is making its way through the road, when they are safe and secure in the privacy of their car, Jason finally doubles over.

“Sweet friggin’ Mary ‘n Joseph,” he whispers, hand clasped over his nose and mouth as if to prevent himself from inhaling more of that tantalizing scent, even though Tim is practically miles away from him at this point. Dick can empathize, pressing his temple onto the cold window in an attempt to cool his heated head. God, but Tim smells _good._

“Boys,” comes Bruce’s voice from the front of the car, “are you okay?”

Dick lets out an unamused little ha-ha and shakes his head, “I had to gnash my teeth together, repeatedly, to restrain myself from nuzzling into his neck like an animal, Bruce. So yeah, thanks for the concern but definitely not alright.”

“What Dick said,” Jason mumbles, still hanging his head.

Clark turns toward the other Alphas, a sympathetic smile on his face. “I understand, boys. His scent is...very pleasant. And his personality, phew,” he whistles, “a really great man, indeed. Great job restraining yourselves back there.”

They fall silent for a while, each with their own share of weight in their minds. Dick honestly doesn’t know what to make of this development. His relationship with Jason is as natural as breathing; sometimes it stutters, and sometimes it becomes so hard to do that it renders him breathless, but it’s a constant. It’s something to get back to, a place to come home to, and Dick has never imagined it any other way.

Until tonight, apparently.

“Is there a word for gettin’ a hard on for somebody’s brain? ‘Cause that’s totally what’s happenin’ here,” Jason quips, breaking the stillness, and Clark makes a thoughtful humming noise.

“Oh, there actually is!” He exclaims, “if I remember correctly, the term’s sapiosexual.”

“Sapiosexual... Gotta remember that next time I meet ‘im.”

“Next time?” Dick sighs out, uncharacteristically quiet. He can feel Jason tensing beside him, and winces inwardly.

“Babe,” Jason says, scooting closer to Dick, “we gotta—”

“Trust me, Jay,” Dick says quietly, cutting him off, “I also want a next time.”

The confession falls out of his mouth with surprising ease. Jason regards him with wide eyes for a few seconds, until the surprise on his face morphs into pure mirth. A fanged grin that decorates his face is familiar, an expression that Dick knows so well, and the older Alpha finds himself smirking back.

“Ohh, Dickie, you slut,” Jason drawls, his face now inches away from Dick’s, noses almost touching. “My fine ass ain’t enough, huh? Gotta have that sweet lil’ ‘Mega laid out for yerself, too. What were ya imaginin’, babe? Pleasure tears wellin’ up in those pretty eyes? Or if he’d taste as good as he smells?”

“Please,” Dick challenges, closing the gap between them to nudge his nose against Jason’s, “those are exactly what _you_ were thinking as well.”

The atmosphere in the car gives way into something charged with heat, concentrating around the air surrounding Dick and Jason. Under normal circumstances, two Alphas would be fighting for the right to mate with an Omega, but Dick and Jason have long accepted that their relationship is a deviation of the norm.

The _need_ is definitely there, the call of their instincts that resonates the strongest whenever an Omega is near, the urge to take and stake a claim. Dick has nearly impeccable control over these urges—thanks to Bruce and his extensive lectures and trainings—and it’s been such a long time ever since an Omega was able to pull such intense reactions from within him.

Jason is his partner; the one he trusts with his life, the one he identifies with the most, and it’s just their luck that the Omega that manages to catch Jason’s attention is also the one who pulls unprecedented reactions out of Dick. Tim Drake has his own brand of strength; one that isn’t shown through garish ways like putting collars on unwilling Alphas and dragging them around on bejeweled leashes, no. He stands out in a community of Omega Elites by refusing to conform to their ways, sticking to what he believes is the right thing to do, and going as far as making concrete steps to strip the society of its bigoted ways.

He’s the most powerful Omega that Dick has ever seen. Both Dick and the Alpha in him shudder at the thought of conquering someone that powerful, of giving the Omega everything he has in return to finally make way for that ultimate form of possession.

And it’s so unbearably _hot_ , the thought of sharing that power with Jason.

“Boys, I’m driving,” Bruce finally comments in a deadpan voice, a reminder that they are currently in a moving car with two men who are the closest things they have to father figures. Dick and Jason wear matching frowns on their faces, immediately calmed down by the fact that Bruce and Clark are right fucking _there._

Clark, the asshole, sniggers and shakes his head, whispering a whimsical _ah, youth,_ that Dick can hear perfectly well from his position. The nerve of him, Dick curses. As if he and Jason have never caught him and Bruce in various compromising positions.

Speaking of Bruce, the man is currently gripping the steering wheel, wearing an expression that would be considered unreadable by anyone who doesn’t know him. Dick is his son, though, so it doesn’t take much for him to read through the signs.

“Bruce,” he tries, “we won’t—”

“I know,” Bruce assures, “I know, Dick, it’s just— There’s so much more to that boy than what you’ve seen tonight, so take your time, don’t be reckless with him. That’s all I’m saying.” Bruce’s voice is tinged with the slightest hint of melancholy, and it’s something that Dick stores in his brainpan for later purposes. “Just... Make sure to court him properly, okay? He deserves that.”

That’s as close as Bruce would come to giving his blessings. Dick and Jason exchange another grin before Dick says, “don’t worry, Bruce. You’ve taught us everything we need to know, and you’re nothing if not thorough.”

Bruce’s response is a scoff and a mumbled _you were absolute pains in my ass,_ that his sons resolutely ignore.

“So, we’ve got a lot to talk about, Dickie,” Jason suddenly declares, and Dick turns to meet his blue-green gaze, “like courting plans, dating options, what kinda flowers to send, what kinda cakes to bake, ‘n all that.”

Dick chuckles, feeling something warm settle in his heart at the thought of doing all that with Jason. “We do, don’t we?”

“Yea,” the other Alpha agrees easily, “got a pretty, brainy lil’ Omega to chase around, so gotta plan ahead, yeah?”

The grin that splits Jason’s face is equal amounts happy and feral, and Dick feels his mouth stretching to form an identical one. Judging by the gleam in Jason’s eyes, Tim is in for a whole new world of _trouble._ Dick giggles and presses a quick kiss to Jason’s jawline, nudging his nose against the rough structure of stubble.

“Believe me, baby,” he drawls, “with the two of our minds combined, he won’t be able to predict what’s coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henlo I have twitter drop a hi I u wanna ;)) [@timmydraqe](https://twitter.com/timmydraqe)


	3. So let me show ya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of fluffy flowers, and bittersweet chocolates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay fellas u asked for this so prepare urselves for absurdly long (or laughably short) intervals between updates *cracks fist*
> 
> ...srsly tho thanks for the comments n encouragements bc I didn't think the concept will be well received?? It's such a pleasant surprise n wow, u guys rock \o/
> 
> Here's a bit of sweetness bc Timmy? Deserves all the sweet things the world has to offer<3
> 
> Chapter title once again taken from Marianas Trench's Truth or Dare (it's a 3some song dammit don't tell me otherwise)

Mondays.

Contrary to popular belief, Monday isn’t the worst day of the week just because it’s the start of a new workday. Some people, Tim included, actually look forward to Mondays. He won’t deny himself; he loves working. It’s constant, it’s something he’s good at, and most importantly, it keeps him busy.

Don’t get him wrong; he loves the weekends as much as any other person on the streets. He loves the idea of lazing around in his apartment after a week’s worth of work, putting on Netflix and pigging out on pizza or tacos or shawarma or whatever he’s craving at the time. He actually cherishes his free time because to be perfectly honest, he doesn’t get much of it.

Sometimes, though, people seem to translate ‘free time’ as ‘permission to pester’ and Tim is decidedly _not_ all about that.

Despite her unwillingness to talk to him face to face, his mother still sends him pamphlets of Alpha candidates for him choose from, thinking that she’s being all surreptitious by not including her name as the sender. It doesn’t take a genius, really, but she gets an A for effort. Not to mention his aunt. Tim sighs, because he loves Aunt Pam with all his heart, but no, he doesn’t need her to send in one of her slaves to _help him through the lonely nights._ His nights are decidedly _lonely,_ but he’s not about to put some random Alpha through misery by having to cater to his needs.

(He can practically see Aunt Pam’s aristocratic face in his mind, somehow still looking very pretty while putting on a scowl. “Have you looked into the mirror, lately, sweetie?” She’d say, “my slaves would jump at the chance to put their knots in that pert bum of yours, just sayin’.”)

It’s his turn to scowl, because he’s of the firm belief that ordering a slave to do sexual favors is wrong. You can’t get a full consent from someone whose freedom has been violated.

That said, he proceeds to send her an (halfhearted) apologetic text, offering a full day at a royal spa as peace offering. As far as Omega Elites go, at least Aunt Pam doesn’t treat her slaves _that_ badly.

Pocketing his phone inside of his suit, he begins the day as usual; by greeting his trustee personal assistant as he walks through the door.

“Morning, Tam—”

“Good morning, Tim.” Her reply is delivered with the biggest grin that Tim has seen on her face ever since that incident where he accidentally walks into the projection screen in the middle of a meeting. This can’t be good.

“Um,” he fidgets, “glad to see you so cheery in the morning, Tam, something good happened during the weekend?”

She only sends him another knowing grin, and honestly, this is getting really creepy.

“You’re gonna keep smiling like that or are you gonna tell me the reason?”

Tam only flicks her wrist, and Tim can’t help but to notice her impeccable nail work. “Oh, don’t pretend, Timmy. Nice to know you finally dropped the Frigid Ice Bitch front.”

Tim balks. “I have _never_ put on—”

“Seriously, though, Jason Todd? How did you manage to bag Jason Todd? He’s like, _phew,_ ” Tam is deadass fanning herself, and Tim kind of wants to pass out. It’s too fucking early for this.

“Tam. Tam, hold on,” he stretches out his hands in an attempt to (futilely) defend himself against her accusations, “I don’t know where you heard about me and Jason, but we only met at a party and that’s _it._ I swear.”

He knows that his encounter with the Wayne pack is newsworthy, and some of the gossip websites have covered the ‘scoop.’ It’s quite predictable, really, because it was the meeting of an Omega who has publicly spoken against taking Alphas as slaves and two Alphas who are, as far as the public is concerned, unaccounted for. He can already imagine his mother’s lengthy email once she gets wind of this.

“Then how do you explain the flowers?”

Tim freezes. “The what, now?”

“Flow-ers, Tim,” Tam stretches out the syllable, as if talking to a small child, “they’re beautiful, you know. He’s got great taste.”

Tim doesn’t wait for Tam to finish her sentence before barging into his office, and sure enough, the aforementioned flowers are very much real, sitting innocently on top of his desk. He doesn’t know just how long he’s been standing like a dummy, gaping at the flowers, but apparently it’s long enough for Tam to start to get worried.

“Tim,” she says, laying her hand on his shoulder, “you okay? Um, do you want me to, like, get rid of them? I’ll get to that immediately if you don’t want them.”

The implication of Tam’s sentence hits Tim like a freight train, and he’s fast to shake his head in denial. “No! No, Tam, it’s okay. They’re not unwanted or anything, but. I’m just. Confused.”

Seemingly unconvinced, she looks into his eyes in that critical way of hers, and Tim fidgets under her scrutiny. She’s one of the very few people that he actually trusts with his personal matters, but sometimes she acts so much like a mother. Tim won’t admit it out loud, but most of the times, he doesn’t know how to respond to her maternal gestures.

“Are you sure?” And judging by her tone, that could very much translate into “do you need me to keep the bastard away?”

Tim flashes a weak smile, “I’m sure, Tam. Thanks for worrying, but Jason’s a great guy. Honest. I’m just confused because—”

 _He’s dating another person,_ but Tim can’t tell Tam that. “He doesn’t seem to be interested in Omegas.”

Tim is pretty sure that Tam catches onto that split second hesitation, but thankfully she doesn’t call him out on it. She only sighs and taps invisible dust away from his suit jacket.

“Just in case you miss the memo, Tim, you’re unlike any other Omega.”

That prompts a genuine smile to float onto Tim’s expression, and he nudges her playfully. “I know. What was that phrase you used? Frigid Ice Bitch?”

She waves a dismissive hand and grins, “I’m not the only one using it, you know. Seriously, though, go get laid before your ass actually freezes over despite the weather.”

With that, she leaves him in alone in his office, walking away with a swivel of her hips. Tim loves her, he really does.

Back to the task at hand, now.

He hesitantly approaches the flowers on top of his desk. Tam is right; they are beautiful. He picks up the card that goes with the flowers, and can’t hold in a grin when he sees what’s written on it.

 

 _“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”  
_ Sorry for the clichéd quote, but reading your journal entries made me think of this. Thanks for seeing with your heart, Timmers. This society has been blind for so long and we gotta be grateful that people like you are still around.

-Love, Jason

 

Tim sighs; a wistful, dreamy noise because _Jason Todd knows The Little Prince?_ Does he read the book or does he watch the animated version? Either way, the image of Jason reading a paperback of a children’s book or curled up on the coach (maybe with Dick in his arms) while watching an animated feature makes Tim feel warm all over. He doesn’t think too much about the signature, and convinces himself that _love_ is a common word to use to end a message.

He diverts his attention to the flowers, instead. He doesn’t instantly recognize the species, and has to depend on google to search for it. When he finds the article, it reads _Dianthus caryophyllus,_ or commonly known as carnations.

Tim’s experience with flowers is exclusively limited to the bouquets he sometimes receives at academic meetings where he acts as a speaker and/or ones sent by institutions that house Alpha slaves, trying to win his favor. The carnations Jason has sent him are nothing like them. They’re tasteful and simple, nothing showy or extravagant, and Tim feels his face heat up as he imagines Jason at a florist, a serious look on his face as he contemplates what kind of flowers would be appropriate.

His thoughts are interrupted by a series of vibrations coming from his suitcase, and he immediately recognizes it as his second phone; the one he uses for communicating with friends. He usually doesn’t check that one in the mornings, so it’s a bit peculiar that—oh shoot, it’s vibrating again. Tim immediately rummages through his suitcase and finds the device.

There are new messages—from Jason. Tim counts to five before thumbing the messenger app open, willing his thundering heart to calm the fuck down. The first few messages are marked from earlier this morning, going as far as 05.46 AM. Tim chuckles. He didn’t peg Jason to be an early riser, but here he is, astonishing him with a surprise after another.

 **Kiss my Sass:** did u get the flowers?  
**Kiss my Sass:** timmers?  
**Kiss my Sass:** holy fuck did the florist fuck up?  
**Kiss my Sass:** man i shoulve sent them myself

Tim’s smile only grows wider by the second. He did mention that he loves Mondays, but this particular Monday might turn out to be a favorite. Before he has the chance to reply, the phone vibrates again.

 **Kiss my Sass:** wow bro if u dont reply im gonna keep sending u lyrics to combat my anxiety or smth  
**Kiss my Sass:** i cud stay awake  
**Kiss my Sass:** just to hearrr u brrreathin  
**Kiss my Sass:** watch u smike while u r sleepin  
**Kiss my Sass:** while ur far away n dreamin  
**Kiss my Sass:** i cud spend my life  
**Kiss my Sass:** in this sweeet surrenderrr  
**Kiss my Sass:** i cud stay lost in thsi moment 4eva  
**Kiss my Sass:** evry moment spent w u  
**Kiss my Sass:** is a moment i  
**Kiss my Sass:** trrrreeeeeasuuuure  
**Kiss my Sass:** dun wanna ckose my eyesss  
**Kiss my Sass:** dun wanna falllll asleep coz id miss u bby  
**Kiss my Sass:** n i dun wanna  
**Kiss my Sass:** miss a thannnnnggg

Tim laughs as his phone vibrates in quick successions as Jason recites god ol’ Aerosmith, complete with crass abbreviations and typos. He decides to end the man’s misery by pressing the call button. As soon as Jason picks up the phone, he says, “Jason, what the heck?”

It seems like the amusement in his tone carries through the tinny receiver, because there’s a smile in Jason’s voice when he greets, “Mornin’, sugar.”

Jason sounds relieved and a little out of breath and wow, Tim, this is not the best time to have second thoughts about calling the man because he could be preoccupied with Dick, and—

 _Get your mind out of the fucking gutter,_ please, _he was_ texting _you just before you called._ The voice berating him in his head sounds too much like Tam, and Tim ponders actually taking her advice on the getting laid thing because even he can admit just how pathetic he’s being.

“Sorry for calling, man, you sound like you’re busy,” he settles for apologizing, because now that he regains the functionality of his brain, it makes sense that Jason might be busy with work. It’s 9 AM on a Monday.

“Nah, ‘s fine,” Jason dismisses, “I’ve been here since crack o’ dawn and we’re mostly finished with the stunts so I’m kinda just loungin’ around. Oh yeah, didja, um, the...flowers?”

Tim has to bite his lip because he can’t believe that the ever cocky Jason Todd can sound so insecure. Over a bunch of flowers, no less.

“They’re here, safe and sound,” Tim assures, “they’re really lovely, Jason, thank you.”

The long exhalation of breath is audible through the receiver, and Tim’s heart makes a jump in his chest cavity. “Wow, that’s. That’s great, phew, got me real worried, there.”

Tim chuckles, trying to lighten up the atmosphere. “For real, though, give the florists a break. They’ve done a really good job with the presentation and everything. So... what’s the occasion?”

He delivers the line casually, trying not to let the overwhelming curiosity eat him up from the inside. Or to let it show in his voice, because he really doesn’t want to make this awkward.

“Light red carnations, Timmers, ya don’t know what they mean?”

Tim makes a single, confused sound. “No...?”

The other man is silent for some suspenseful seconds, until he finally lets out a warm chuckle, the sound washing over Tim in gentle waves.

“There really is no way to put this without bein’ completely cheesy, but basically they’re used to express admiration.”

That is unexpected. “Oh,” Tim says dumbly, “I, uh—what did I do to deserve them, exactly?”

“Good Lord, sugar, you gotta learn to give yerself some credit, yeah?” Jason sounds genuinely reproachful when he says it, and he doesn’t give Tim the chance to reply before continuing, “not specifically what you _did,_ but what you’ve been doin’,” he explains, “count the flowers, babe.”

Tim takes the time to count, making sure not to miss. It doesn’t make any more sense even after he’s finished counting, but there they are; thirteen stems of light red carnations, beautifully captivating in their state of full bloom.

“Thirteen...?” He reports his findings to the Alpha on the other side of the phone, “but what’s that—”

“The publication of yer most recent journal entry was last month, wasn’t it?” Jason cuts him off, “sorry it’s a bit late, but it also marked yer thirteenth, yeah? Congrats, Timmy.”

In the wake of Jason’s explanation, Tim finds himself at a loss of words. He wasn’t expecting that. Hasn’t been expecting that. Still _isn’t_ expecting that, so he can only stand in the middle of his office like a complete dummy while staring at the flowers. That seems to be the ongoing theme this morning.

“Uh,” he voices out, and winces inwardly. The fact that Jason is being really patient with his uncharacteristically slow reactions is making him wish for a blackhole to appear out of nowhere and _have mercy on his soul_ just suck him inside of it.

Something in his brain is sending coded messages about how he’s being completely rude right now, because Jason congratulated him and his response was an unintelligible, monosyllabic sound. He needs to gather himself, he thinks, and the first step is to—

“I’m. Thanks, Jay.”

Just _where_ did that nickname come from? Tim is .05 seconds away from wailing his heart out, but Jason comes to his rescue by letting out a laugh, all crass and warm and uniquely _Jason._ Tim is definitely _not_ blushing.

“Yer welcome, sugarbabe,” is said after a fond, throaty chuckle.

Tim really doesn’t want to be _that guy,_ but he notices the new petname and wow, he doesn’t feel like he deserves such a cute namesake because he’s decidedly not cute nor sweet, and—hold the phone.

“You read my journals?” Tim blurts out, proceeding to clamp his mouth shut when he realizes just how insensitive that sounds.

Jason doesn’t seem to take offence, because he only makes a single, affirmative sound in reply. “I did. Can’t bother to understand some of the scientific jargons, but I sorta get the gist of ‘em.”

“Wow. That’s. I’m really flattered, Jason, truly.”

“Now, babe, where did _Jay_ disappear to?” His tone is lighthearted, teasing, but Tim feels anything but.

He begins to flail, even though he’s aware that the other man can’t see him through the phone. “I, I don’t—“

“Relax, Timmers, ‘m just playin’ witchu,” Jason lets out another laugh, and Tim kind of hates himself for wanting to record that sound and make it his alarm tone or something. He can totally wake up to it every morning. “Anyways, yeah, I read most of ‘em. Didja know ya sound really passionate in yer writings, babe? Can’t be bothered with tryin’ to understand the science stuff, but I can _read_ writings, y’know? And you, mister, are a real passionate guy.”

Tim really doesn’t know what to make of that, so he laughs it off. “I hope you mean that in a good way.”

“Hey, I did send you flowers, didn’ I?”

That pulls a sigh out of Tim, and it changes into a breathless laugh in a second. “Yeah. Yeah, you did. I’m tooting my own horn, but thanks. I really appreciate it, Jason.”

“Jay.”

Tim blinks, “excuse me?”

“Really liked how ya used that name on me, so,” Tim can almost see him lift a shoulder in a lazy shrug, “humor me ‘n use that from now on, yeah?”

As he takes a much needed lungful of air, Tim forces himself to restrain, take a step back, and be _reasonable._ The gesture is sweet and the words are sweeter; making the Omega residing inside of Tim uncurls with pleasure for getting the attention of an Alpha. Thankfully, it doesn’t need much for him to get his inner O to _stand_ _the fuck down,_ because all he has to do is imagine Dick’s—Jason’s boyfriend’s—face. That suffices as a reality check.

 “I’ll try to remember that,” he settles to say, hoping that Jason doesn’t notice the strain in his voice. “Seriously, though, don’t you have work to get back to?”

Jason is silent for a few beats, and then, “yeah. Yeah, I do. Catch ya later, babe?”

“Of course,” and then, in a surge of bravery, “Jay.”

He gets one more laugh out of the Alpha, one that will make going through his day that much easier. Tim takes a deep breath, and lets his phone clatter on top of his desk. The flowers are a noticeable anomaly in his clinical, professional working space, but he allows their presence as he lets a warm feeling settle in the center of his chest.

He’s made a great friend.

 

***

 

Wednesdays.

Wednesdays are garbage day, so Tim typically doesn’t expect to be sent things on the day where he’s supposed to send stuff out. That’s why the beautifully wrapped box that he finds outside of his apartment is more than a little baffling.

He picks it up and tests its weight. Moderate, more on the lighter side. The only thing that he’s been expecting is a new coffee maker that he’s just bought online, but this mustn’t be it. The packaging is too cute, and the content is far too light for it to be an electronic appliance.

“Huh,” he exhales, still puzzled but also more than a little curious. He hurries to throw away the garbage and proceeds to take the box inside of his apartment, fully intent on examining it further.

After setting the box on his dinner table, he notices the card innocuously sitting on top of it. He easily flips open the card and reads the message.

 

Hiya Little One!

Saw you on TV a couple of days ago and did you lose weight? You did, didn’t you? Gotta put on some weight & stay on top of your game, Timmy! And what better way to do that than gobbling down a heapload of dessert? ;)

-xoxo, Dick

 

Tim almost drops the card in shock. He hastily picks it up, turns it this way and that, puts it under natural lighting, and even after all that, the content of the message remains unchanged. If the fact that _Dick Grayson_ is the sender isn’t enough to send him into mini seizures, then that little _xoxo_ right in front of it may very well be the trigger.

Tim hasn’t even had his coffee.

Just when the thought passes through his mind, he hears his phone ring. It’s an anticipated (and also dreaded) sound, so he slowly walks to where he’s charging his phone, unplugs the device, and peers into the screen. Sure enough, Dick’s name is flashing in block letters, all harmless and generic, but still enough to make Tim’s head reel.

“Hello?” he says into the receiver, steeling himself.

“Timmy! Hi, baby, what a nice morning, amirite? Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Tim can almost feel the anxiety slowly chipping away because Dick carries the sun in his voice, warm and bright and kind. He allows a few puffs of breath in the shape of a chuckle to escape his lips, and hums.

“No, you’re not, Dick,” he assures, “I’m making coffee but I can do it while we talk. What’s up?”

“Coffee, huh?” Dick says, a tinge of playfulness in his tone, “just in time, then! Have you received the package?”

Tim knows that Dick is going to bring that up sooner or later, but his stupid heart still picks up like crazy.

“Yeah, but... I haven’t looked inside?”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

And honestly, who can say no to Dick Grayson when he’s being all eager and encouraging? Admittedly, Tim isn’t included in the (absurdly short) list of people who can deny him, so he obliges.

He puts the phone on speaker and proceeds to open the box with careful hands. He can’t help the gasp from leaving his mouth when he sees what’s inside, and it seems like Dick somehow picks up on the soft sound, because he’s quick to say, “Tim, is everything okay?”

After a few beats, Tim finally regains his ability to compute thoughts and form words, but even then, he can only let out a simple, “yeah. It’s fine, Dick, it’s great.”

“You sound really weird, Timmy, like one of those cute little robots on Star Wars? Monotone but cute. And hey, take it as a compliment, okay?” Dick is teasing him again, and Tim respects the man’s attempts to make the mood a little lighter, so he lets out an appropriate laugh.

“Shut up, asshat,” he quips back halfheartedly, “but, wow, man, I’m not expecting this at all.” He puffs out a disbelieving chuckle, “this might be the first time anyone ever sends me something like this.”

He looks at the row of little chocolate cakes sitting at the bottom of the box, all of them coming in different shapes. There’s a star, a heart, something that resembles Mickey, a perfectly round circle, and then—

“Is that Shrek?” Tim asks, a bit hysterical, “where did you even find these, dude?”

Dick sounds very pleased with himself as he harrumphs and says, “A chef never reveals their secrets.”

And wow, Tim wasn’t expecting that.

“You made these yourself?”

He must have sounded really incredulous, because Dick sheds the confident front by letting out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, I did. Um, that’s okay, right?”

Tim flails, and hurries to say, “Of course it’s okay! I can’t even imagine— wow. But really, Dick, you’re sending me free chocolate cakes. I don’t think I have the right to be picky about where they came from.”

“You sure don’t,” Dick singsongs, and then, “seriously, though. Some of them end up being kinda lumpy and funny looking...? But I don’t really have time to remake everything, so. Yeah. Jesus, I can only pray they taste good.”

As the other man talks, Tim takes his time to poke the mini cakes. Dick is clearly exaggerating, because Tim may not be an expert in cakes and/or baking, but they look just fine to him. Sure, some of them are a bit faulty, but to be fair, baking isn’t the simplest thing to do on earth.

“Hold on, ‘m gonna take a bite,” he says, and rushes into the kitchen to find a saucer and a spoon.

Dick is laughing again, and Tim likes the way it echoes around his apartment. The illusion it gives is all kinds of unacceptable, though, so he squashes down the feeling and concentrates on the cakes.

When the spoon slices through spongy chocolate, Tim has to hold in an honest to God moan, because is that _melted dark chocolate, oh my Lord,_ Dick made him _chocolate lava cakes._ He can admit that the little detail makes him more than a little ravenous, and the way he wolfs down a spoonful of (sinful) chocolate concoction is all kinds of slovenly, but hey. Chocolate does that to people.

He prepares himself for that flavor burst, and it doesn’t disappoint. He’s always loved the bittersweet bite of dark chocolate, and the fact that it melts on his tongue right after the sweet sponginess of the cake makes his whole body sings. It’s like a blessed explosion in his mouth that spreads through his whole being, and _excuse you,_ that isn’t an exaggeration. Like Dick said, the texture of the cake is a bit lumpy here and there, but the older man totally _nails_ the taste because oh my God, Tim is going to _go to town_ on these little darlings.

“Ohmigodtheyreamzing,” is his unintelligible response, and he can’t even bother to be ashamed because chocolate makes him a little brain dead.

“...yeah?” Dick sounds a bit hoarse, hopeful, like Tim’s opinions and impressions actually _matter_ to him, and Tim almost chokes on emotions. Or maybe that’s the cake, whatever.

“Yeah, man,” he assures, “it’s really, really good. My compliments to the chef.”

The last part is said with every intention to bring the sunny warmth back to Dick’s voice, and Tim congratulates himself for succeeding.

“Wow, that’s great,” Dick sounds genuinely happy and relieved, “Jay’s the one who’s all kitchen savvy, so I was really nervous about how they’ll turn out. He did help out, though,” a thoughtful noise, “actually no, scratch that. He treated me like a contestant on Hell’s Kitchen, and the asswipe looked like he enjoyed every second of it.”

Tim gulps down another spoonful, and snickers around the bite. “He went all military in the kitchen?”

Dick confirms by letting out an affirmative hum, and continues, “He also went all salt bae on my ass, and we didn’t even _use_ salt,” he jokes, prompting Tim to bark out a guffaw.

“You guys are amazing.”

“So we’ve been told.”

Both of them break into another round of barely restrained laughter, basking in each other’s joy in the wee hours of the morning. It may not be acceptable, but Tim can’t help it; Dick makes him so happy, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to get carried away by his sunny disposition.

“Thanks, Dick,” Tim says, injecting as much gratitude as he can into two simple syllables, “you’re gonna make me bloat, man, hope you’re happy.”

Dick purrs, contemplative, “something tells me you’d still look cute.”

Tim goes red so fast it’s bordering on pathetic, and he pinches the tip of his (also red) ears as he panics, not knowing how to respond—

When Jason saves the day.

“Dickie, get yer ass in the kitchen or so help me _God_ ‘m gonna smash ev’ry single one o’ yer _stupid_ mugs.”

His voice is loud, powerful, booming through Tim’s speakers even though he’s sure that Jason is at least two rooms away from where Dick is. Tim tries to stifle a giggle when Dick responds in a string of colorful swear words and a threat of _well I can_ burn _every single one of your paperbacks!_

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” Dick finally concedes, and even through the annoyance, Tim detects a tone of exasperated fondness in his voice. He can’t help but to feel like he’s intruding on a private moment, so he keeps quiet.

“Hey, babe, really sorry but I gotta go,” Dick apologizes, sounding genuinely remorseful, “I’ll talk to you later?”

Tim gulps, not knowing how to react to the promise of _later,_ but tries to respond accordingly. “Yeah, sure. Have a nice day, Dick.”

Dick’s reply is an easy, “you, too, sweetheart,” that is murmured around a smile, and Tim closes his eyes to imagine the look on Dick’s beautiful face before the line goes dead.

It’s silent in his apartment, and Tim feels the absence of warmth all too acutely. He sighs, gripping the fabric of his too big sweater in an attempt to anchor himself. His mind inevitably goes to the flowers that decorate his office, a splash of warm colors on a monotone backdrop, and a reminder of a gesture of kindness that Tim isn’t sure he deserves.

Well, maybe he does deserve it, but the shadowy part of his mind wants to deny it, deny everything that is tied to Dick Grayson and Jason Todd.

He’s made himself a promise that night, after he had engaged in that shameful, _disrespectful_ act, that he wouldn’t be weak. He needs to be strong enough to resist, and to be perfectly honest, he’s been failing to do so. His defense mechanism (one that he’s spent most of his life building by denying the call of his instincts) is supposed to be immaculate, strong enough to earn him the wicked nickname of a Frigid Ice Bitch.

How laughable.

He thinks himself resilient, but here they are, combing through his instincts, his very _soul,_  with gentle words and sweet gestures. Tim chuckles, because the worst part is that he knows that none of it will lead anywhere. They’re being Alphas, whose main instinct is to dote on an Omega, and as someone who has spent a chunk of his life studying pack behavior, Tim is aware that what they’ve been doing is most likely spurred by their natural predisposition because, well. Tim isn’t the best at self-care, and both Dick and Jason are acute enough to notice that.

 _You can deny it all you want, Tim,_ a voice sneers in his head, _but you’ve purposefully made them notice, haven't you, because that’s how hungry you are. How ravenous you truly are. That’s what you get for suppressing the animal inside of you for too damn long._

He breathes in, shaky, because he can’t even decide if he should begrudgingly agree with that voice, or vehemently deny its acccusations.

“Weakling,” he whispers into the air, addressing nothing and no one. He stares down at the cake, takes another bite, and sure enough. It’s bittersweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That got deppressing adhashfla forgive me I swear he'll earn his well deserved happiness,, in time :""))
> 
> Anyways I’m on twitter babes ;) [@timmydraqe](https://twitter.com/timmydraqe)


	4. Follow me down to do it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of pretty mouths and hungry hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA Dinah still can’t decide where to go with the plot so she writes porn instead. Fair warning!! The smut in here is exclusively between Jason and Dick, but they talk abt Timmy a lot. Like, A Lot. They’re super into him in case u haven’t noticed. Ok moving on :DD Enjoy babes!
> 
> PS. Chapter title is, again, taken from Marianas Trench's Truth or Dare. I'm. Lov this song ok

Jason lets the back of his head collide against the headboard with a resounding thud. He’s been trying _hard_ not to do so, not to get so weak and give in to the sensations, but fuckin’ Dick Grayson just had to be a fuckin’ overachiever and swallowed his cock in one go. No one can keep their eyes from rolling into their heads while being on the receiving end of _that,_ Jason justifies.

The aforementioned man—the absolute pain in Jason’s _ass,_ the infuriating little shit, the light of his life—is currently bobbing his head between Jason’s legs, being all too cheery and enthusiastic with the task at hand. Or maybe _at hand_ isn’t the correct phrase to use because Dickie certainly doesn’t need his hands to deepthroat like a champ.

“Ah, baby,” Jason growls out, ignoring the cramp he feels in his neck because Dick is a _vision_ when he has a cock in his mouth, “fuckin’ hell, babe, where didja lose yer gag reflex, huh?”

Jason swears that Dick is smirking around his mouthful. The older Alpha purrs from deep within his throat, letting the sensation reverberate through Jason’s length, and _fuck_ that feels real nice. He proceeds to drag his mouth upwards, the plush of his lips stroking along Jason’s entire length until he reaches the head. When he opens his mouth, a viscous mixture of saliva and precome spills out of his lips, wetting Jason’s cock and making things ten times messier. 

That is _definitely_ on purpose, Jason thinks, as he watches Dick drag an index finger through the mess.

“Never did have one, Jay,” he says, all cheeky, and proceeds to put his finger—the one that’s dirtied with spit and precome—in front of Jason’s face.

Jason manages a halfhearted glare before taking the offending digit into his mouth, making sure to suck until his cheeks hollow like he’s got something to prove. It doesn’t taste half bad—it’s his own precome and Dick’s saliva, nothing he hasn’t swallowed before—so he gulps everything down and keeps the finger in his mouth, even when it presses down on his tongue.

“Mmm, what a pretty mouth,” Dick singsongs, like the asshole he is, so Jason bites down hard. “Ouch! That’s mean, Jay.”

Jason releases the appendage with a pop, and smirks up at his partner. “Don’t be a baby, Dickie. And you haven’t finished your job.”

He gestures to his erection, which still stands hard and firm, the beginning of a knot forming at the base.

Dick lets out a huffy sound in response, and if he thinks himself _cute,_ he’s got another thing coming. “Fine, fine. But only ‘cause your cock’s so pretty.”

With that, he proceeds to swallow Jason down again, all business and no play this time. The younger Alpha gasps at the sudden vice grip around his dick, the heat of Dick’s throat and the way it encompasses him. If Jason believes in Heavens he might be singing to them now, because damn, he’s such a lucky man.

“Damn, Dickie,” Jason drawls, “you say my mouth’s pretty but ya haven’t taken a look at yers in a long while, have ya?”

Dick looks breathtaking like this; engrossed and so focused with the service, having no qualms about being eager and messy, like Jason’s the best damn thing he’s ever had. When the stretch of his lips bumps against Jason’s knot—the farthest he can get, but hey, that’s a fuckin’ feat in itself—the younger Alpha rewards him by putting a hand in his hair, stroking the scalp and massaging the way he knows feels best.

And Dick just falls right into it—pushing back against the warmth of Jason’s hand as his eyes fall shut in contentment. He looks so peaceful, solemn almost (with a fuckin’ dick in his mouth, what did Jason ever do to deserve this man), and Jason can’t help but to ruffle his feathers.

He purposefully makes loud groans, ones that originated from deep within his chest, showing his appreciation. “Damn, babe, are y’sure yer the one servicing me? ‘Cause it sure looks like _I_ should be the one gettin’ paid for lettin’ ya loose on my cock.”

Dick’s fingers aren’t idle; Jason feels them on his balls, massaging, fondling, gently teasing the sensitive skin just below them, like Dick wants to make sure to ease every single drop out of Jason. Well, he ain’t gonna be disappointed, Jason thinks.

“‘s great that yer doin’ all the work so I can just lay back ‘n enjoy,” Jason continues, twisting the fingers he has in Dick’s hair, “so ya don’t mind if I close my eyes,” he pauses, feeling the beginning of a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, “‘n imagine sweet, sweet Timmy, do ya?”

The older Alpha actually chokes at that, and the grip of his throat gets unbearably tight for a split second that Jason has to take a deep breath and calm himself. _Ease down, dammit,_ he thinks, _it’s only beginning so don’t ruin the show by lettin’ it out everywhere._

Dick slowly eases up to free his mouth, and his breathing is noticeably harsher when he looks down at Jason.

“Fuck, Jay, you can’t just,” Dick inhales, a look of frustration coloring his face, “ _say_ those kinds of things.”

His partner just laughs in response, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “What, ya can’t handle that image? Of those pretty, pink lips wrapped around my cock?”

Jason positively purrs that last part, and Dick groans out loud. He comes back full force; stroking the base of Jason’s cock as his mouth gets back to work, lavishing licks and gentle sucks on the crown.

“God, but his mouth is so friggin’ small,” Jason wonders out loud, “thin and pouty and pink and small. Think he can handle alla me?”

Dick only moans around his mouthful as a way of answering, making a shiver run up Jason’s spine. But he’s not finished, not yet.

“Y’know I really like playin’ with yer hair when yer doin’ this, Dickie,” Jason concedes, threading his fingers through Dick’s curls, “wonder how his hair’ll feel on my fingers... Say, d’ya think he’d like it if I pull?”

Before Jason can do anything, though, Dick moves. He’s always been fast—seriously, Dickie is the worst combination of fast movement and grace, and Jason kind of hates that he almost never sees it coming—and tonight is no exception. Dick puts a hand on Jason’s jaw, forces it open, and before Jason can blink, his mouth cavity is full of the other Alpha’s tongue, licking and probing and so fucking _relentless_ that Jason has to fight the fuck back.

They’re at it for a while; lips sliding together in a familiar dance, making way for tongues, teeth, and breaths, swallowing each other’s groans between puffs of hot air. As Alphas, their natural inclination is to rise up against any kind of competition, so it’s expected that every kiss they share in mutual throes of passion would end up being a fight for dominance. Jason doesn’t care much about who comes out victorious, though, not when every battle ends with Dickie looking like that; mouth red and abused, eyes full of hunger and promises and everything Jason wants to take from him, only to give back just as good.

“That fucking mouth,” Dick hisses, “should be put to better use, don’t you think?”

That’s Dick’s unfiltered Alpha voice—deep, dark, commanding—and a shiver wreaks through Jason’s body, despite his best efforts. However, he’s also an Alpha, and that means he never backs away from a challenge.

“Yeah?” He drawls, “what’re ya gonna make me do?”

Dick laughs, a harsh, mocking sound, and it’s with a leer that he says, “Are you kidding me, Jay? What better use does your mouth have than to spout filth?” Dick doesn’t even give Jason the chance to be surprised before he slides down once more, the pout of his lips millimeters away from Jason’s cock as he challenges, “so tell me all about it. All you’ve got stored in there; all the best fantasies, with me and our pretty baby as the main stars.”

Jason nearly loses it when _our pretty baby_ spills so confidently out of Dick’s mouth, like he’s already laying their collective claim on the Omega. It’s not right, and Jason knows that, but fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever imagined.

“Our _baby,_ ” Jason starts, growling out the last syllable for Dick’s benefits, “would look like so gorgeous on his knees, don’tcha agree? We’ll ease ‘im right into it, make sure he’s all comfy ‘n cozy before he gets that plush mouth anywhere near my cock—ah, yeah, babe, that’s the spot,” Jason groans when Dick’s tongue brushes against a sensitive spot just below the frenulum. For his efforts, the younger man rewards him with a scratch just behind Dick’s ear, a gesture that makes Dick moan around his mouthful. Jason grins. He loves a win win.

He decides to appreciate the view—Dick’s wavy hair is getting even more tousled after Jason has raked through it numerous times, and the way Dick brushes it off his face before he goes down again is all sorts of hot—for a moment, and even though he said that he’s going to close his eyes and imagine Tim, he finds that he can’t bring himself to do it. Not a hundred percent, at least, because the way Dick’s mouth encompasses his cock has been embedded inside of his brain since years ago; when they were still confused boys fumbling with the act of sex.

He recognizes all the small telltales; the teasing flicks of his tongue, the way he’s always so careful with his teeth, the ridges on the roof of his mouth, and it’s almost impossible to imagine anyone else but his wonderful Dickie, who’s always so benevolent in sharing his pleasure. Sure, he still wants Tim with a fire of passion—they _both_ do—but the one in front of him, the one who is sharing the moment with him, is Dick, and there really is no way Jason can ignore that fact.

That said, Jason considers himself a very creative talker, and he isn’t a man who goes back on his promise, so he opens his mouth and gives Dickie an _incentive._ One that he knows they both will appreciate.

“Sweet thing’s a trier, we both know this; so I bet he’s gonna go for it on the first try, don’tcha think? He’s gonna try so _hard_ to please,” Jason pauses, brushes his fingers against the arch of Dick’s slender neck, “that he’s gonna fuckin’ _choke_ on it.”

Dick lets out an honest to God whine before pulling off, jerking Jason’s cock with one calloused hand as he babbles, “fuck, yes, Jay, I can imagine it, ngh,” Jason chuckles at the way his boyfriend grinds against the sheets, searching for much needed friction, “’cause you’re so big, God, you’re _huge._ ”

“Aw, yer makin’ me blush, sweetie,” Jason coos, “but enough ‘bout me. We’re not gonna let ‘im hurt himself, ya feel me? He ain’t gonna repeat the same mistake ‘cause he’s gettin’ a crash course on sucking cock from the most talented cocksucker in the room.”

Jason’s hand strays from its perch on Dick’s hair, slides down flushed cheeks until he finds soft lips, halfway parted around an exhale. He pries the opening wider with impatient fingers, feeling the way Dick laughs around his forefinger and middle finger before the warm and wet envelops them, a familiar heat on his fingertips.

“Mmm,” Dick hums around the digits and makes a show of twirling his tongue around before grinning up at Jason, “and who’s that? You?”

The fuckin’ cheeky bastard.

 “Heh,” Jason voices, “guess we’re both pretty good at it, yeah? Sugarbabe’s gonna get two tutors instead of one. Imagine that.”

Dick chuffs out a laugh at that, carefree and warm, and drags his body up to meet Jason in a playful kiss. It’s nothing like the previous one; more of a series of pecks, interrupted by occasional giggles and chuckles, and Jason puts his arm around Dick’s waist to pull him closer. The heat of his body is the something Jason associates with _home,_ and he knows that Dick feels the same when strong arms wind themselves around his shoulders.

“Jack me off?” Jason puffs out against the other Alpha’s mouth, only to receive a soft shake of Dick’s head.

“Want you to come in my mouth.”

Seriously, Dick has said that line a hundred times (maybe more, fuck) but it still makes Jason’s insides do little somersaults, like they’re rearranging themselves inside of his body without their master’s permission. He’s long accepted the fact that he’ll always be more than a little weak for Dickie, but sometimes his bodily reactions are just ridiculous. Dick notices the pause and nuzzles his cheek, letting out a confused little, _baby?_ and there’s that somersault again. Jason wants to wail.

He chuckles, instead, laying a kiss on Dick’s eyes, nose, mouth, before saying, “go right ahead, babe. Take what’s yours.”

Blue eyes turn to him with apparent excitement slash anticipation, and the way they light up reminds Jason of the sky.

“Love ya, Dickie,” falls out of his mouth without preamble. Dick, bless his soul, doesn’t make it awkward. He laughs again—Jason wants to drown in that sound—and takes Jason’s hand, presses a quick kiss to its knuckles.

“I know,” Dick mumbles, “and you know my answer to that.”

Those blue eyes are back on him again, and in a split second, the warm light gives way to a sharp glint. Dick places Jason’s hand on the back of his own neck, a signal, and Jason takes a deep breath when he realizes that he wants him to _grip_ and _push._

He does just that, and has to stifle an exasperated groan at the way Dick fights against his grip. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. 

“Gotta do better than that, baby,” Dick goads, the white of his teeth visible around a predatory grin, “you think Timmy’s gonna simply obey us? No,” a sharp laugh, “that boy’s gonna fight back. At least at first. So you have to show him,” the air around them is suddenly thicker, clouded with heat and anticipation, “show him how a good Alpha subdues their Omega.”

Dick is referring to the position they’re in now; the hand on neck. The neck—the area where the scent gland is located—is considered as a highly intimate part of the body. It is not to be touched casually, especially by people who aren’t considered close. One must earn a certain level of trust to be able to touch the neck, and even more to be able to grip and push down.

It’s a form of intimacy that is reserved only for family, pack, and loved ones. If one or more of the parties involved express discomfort, then it must be stopped immediately. Or at least, that is what Bruce has drilled into their heads, to make sure that they understand just how important the gesture is. The thought of Tim allowing them free access to his neck is more than a little intoxicating, and Jason feels an urgency like he’s never felt before. He has never wanted to touch an Omega’s neck, until now.

Despite not wanting to, Jason knows how to do it. Bruce has educated them both thoroughly, and the Beta’s lessons are as good as ingrained inside of their heads. _Remember,_ Jason can almost hear the deep, smooth voice in his head, _don’t force, never use brute force. The proper way to do it is by coaxing; be gentle, be patient, show your partner that you appreciate the privilege they have given you. This gesture, much like a relationship, is reciprocal. Make sure to give as much as you receive._

Thank you, Bruce Wayne.

The movement of his fingers is mostly muscle memory, and he relishes in it as much as Dick seems to appreciate it. He begins by massaging the muscles on Dick’s neck; working the knots loose and caressing the smooth flesh just after. When Dick pushes back against his touch—a sign that he’s relaxed enough—Jason braves himself to curl his fingers, forming a grip that spans Dick’s slender neck. He makes sure to pour as much attention as he can to that point of contact, so Dick can feel his effort and his appreciation, his attention and love. The older man hums in contentment, and Jason knows he’s triumphed.

“That’s great,” Dick purrs, and the appreciation in his voice never fails to make Jason’s heart sing, “Timmy’s gonna love that. _I_ love it.”

Jason doesn’t even need to resort to that final push for Dick to go back to work, and when he does, he’s fucking _merciless._

“Fuckin’ _hell,_ baby,” is the only thing Jason can say in the face of the assault. Dick doesn’t even grace him with a reaction, only hums around his mouthful and pushes further down, swallowing around Jason’s length with no problem at all. Jason feels himself give into the sensations; every lick, playful nip, stray kiss, and that godforsaken throat that just _opens_ to receive him, so receptive, so benevolent, so hot, and only _his._

“Dickie,” he warns when it all gets _toomuchtoomuc_ _h_ and he feels too close to hitting rock bottom, “’m close.”

Dick releases his cock with a resounding pop, and begins to work his hand instead of his mouth. Shit, that also feels so damn _good._

“Go ahead, baby,” Dick mumbles, laying a noisy kiss on the crown of Jason’s cock, “say his name, c’mon. I wanna hear it from your pretty mouth. C’mon, Jay.”

It’s a poorly concealed order, and Jason closes his eyes to concentrate on the fantasy. It’s not hard to conjure; he remembers those arctic eyes, those pale cheeks, those plush lips, and it isn’t difficult to paint a prettier picture on an already gorgeous canvas.  His brain comes up with an image of Tim, beautiful Tim, with his eyes half-mast, moist with tears, his hair tousled, his cheeks warm and his lips slack, wet and red from _use._

( _‘Did I do well?’_ He’d say, curiosity in his eyes as he looks up at them, oblivious to the effect he has on both Alphas, _‘did I please you?’_ )

If that picture isn’t enough, he remembers how their precious Timmy had said it, all bashful and hesitant through the speaker of his phone. _Jay,_ he had said, like the nickname is something foreign and precious on his tongue, and Jason loses it when he envisions Tim on his knees, the same syllable spilling from his mouth. _Jay,_ he’d say, his voice hoarse from servicing Jason’s cock, and _fuck, he’s gonna fuckin’ come._

“Ahh, fuck, fuck, _Tim,_ ” Jason growls, “Timmers, God, I want you, I want you _so bad,_ please, lemme touch, lemme make ya feel good, fuck, _Timmy_.”

“Me too,” Dick responds, his breath heavy on Jason’s sensitive skin, “me too, Jay, I want, I want so much, want _him_ so much, wanna touch, wanna _taste,_ fuck.”

And maybe it’s the desperation in Dick’s voice, the twin sentiment in his words, their mutual _want_ for the brilliant, _painfully oblivious_ Omega, that Jason is finally pushed past the edge, a loud groan signaling his pleasure. It spills out of him in warm, white streaks, cloudy and large in quantity, a biological trait of an Alpha. Through hazy eyes, Jason sees Dick hovering between his legs. His fingers are restless, making nonsensical pattern on Jason’s come-streaked belly.

“Fuck, Dickie, that’s messy,” Jason complains, “didn’tcha wanna swallow, babe? It’s all wasted now—”

“Wanna fuck your thighs,” Dick almost babbles, his expression urgent. Jason takes five seconds to let it sink in (he’s just had an orgasm, okay, his brain is a little _slow_ ) before he lets out a chuckle.

Jason is quick to change their position. He turns around, giving Dick the view of broad, freckled back, and proceeds to settle on his elbows and knees. He makes use of his semen, not caring that he’s being filthy as fuck, and lathers the slick substance on the insides of his thighs before pressing them together. He does it all with a casual, no nonsense air around him, and has to laugh at the way Dick’s eyes go dark with want.

“C’mon, then,” Jason smirks, “all yours.”

Dick lets out a groan and practically jumps him, draping himself on Jason’s back without his usual grace. He peppers kisses on the space between Jason’s shoulder blades as he guides his long neglected erection to the tight space that the younger Alpha has created. Dick’s relieved moan is breathed right against his ear, and Jason lets out an amused chuckle as he ruffles his boyfriend’s hair, telling him to start whenever he’s ready.

Dick begins to move, rolling his hips in a familiar slide that prompts mutual groans to fall out of their mouths. When he’s settled into a rhythm that makes the sound of flesh slapping against each other even more prominent, Jason works his mouth again.

“’s this how ya wanna fuck ‘im, Dickie?” Jason challenges, “hard ‘n fast like this? Poor boy, he’s gonna be so _wrecked_ by the time you feed ‘im yer knot ‘cause yer so fuckin’ relentless when yer like this, babe, you have no idea.”

He knows that Dick’s eyes are closed (they often are, when Dick is _desperate_ to reach that end), but Jason can imagine the heat behind his shuttered eyelids. Jason is almost certain that he purposefully cuts off his sense of vision so he can better visualize the monologue that Jason’s serving; of sweet, beautiful Timmy, tight and slick around his cock, receptive and warm and so, so _perfect._

What would he sound like?

Would he moan, would he cry out, would he sob, would he whimper? Would he call out their names? He can’t help but to imagine that sweet voice again, crying out their names _(‘Dick, Jay, **please** ,’)_ and sobbing out his pleasure. Jason would let him shed it all, the precious pleasure tears that would leak from those eyes; maybe he could hug Tim’s head close to his chest as Dick fucks him, _knots_ him, as Jason waits for his turn.

That gives him an idea.

“Or maybe you wanna fuck ‘im right on top of me?” the younger Alpha goads, chuckling when Dick’s pace stutters, “yeah, ya like that, don’tcha? Two of yer beloved sweethearts, sweating ‘n panting ‘n pleasured below ya.”

“Jay,” Dick whines, and there’s no rhyme or reason to the way he moves now. His cock is so hard, leaking furiously and making Jason’s thighs impossibly wet, but Jason can’t bring himself to care because he _knows_ that tone.

“Fuck, yer close, aren’tcha? I can feel yer knot expanding, Dickie, ngh, love it when ya rub it on me.” Jason knows his limits and he’s aware that he won’t get hard again tonight, but the thought of Dick coming all over him makes a flicker of fire come alive on his lower belly, simmering low and warm, “but ya know what Omegas do when they feel their Alphas gettin’ close, Dickie? They get so. Fuckin’. Slick.”

Dick’s gasps and thrusts are reaching a whole new level of _wild,_ so Jason trudges on. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’tcha? He’d be leakin’ around yer dick, all wet ‘n warm ‘n _delicious._ Shit, all those slick’d be wasted on the sheets... I wanna fuckin’ lap it all up, no lie.”

 “You’re _filthy,_ ” Dick manages between ragged pants, and Jason laughs.

“Careful, old man, don’t bite yer tongue,” he teases, “yeah, that’s it, rut harder, babe, I can take it. Timmy’d take it, too; all of ya, yer kisses, yer cock, yer _knot,_ locking into place inside of him—God, Dickie, he’s gonna prepare for his fill, yeah? Gets so fuckin’ tight around yer cock, like he won’t let go until he milks ev’ry last drop—”

“Jason, _Jay,_ Tim _my,_ ” is vocalized in a form of broken moans as Dick finally reaches his end. Jason eases him through it, whispers sweet nothings into his ear as Dick comes down from his high, and smacks a kiss on his cheek when Dick is on the verge of collapsing.

Both of them collapse on the bed without preamble, panting hard like they’ve just finished a marathon. Jason is the first one to break the almost synchronized breathing sound, rolling around to settle on his back. His stomach and thighs are sticky with two loads of Alpha come, and he carelessly wipes the mess with a shirt he picks from the corner of the bed.

Whatever. They can do the laundry in the morning.

“That was,” Jason pants, “Lord help us, we’re so fuckin’ _gone_ for that tiny lil’ fucker.”

“Agreed,” Dick acknowledges, “God, I can feel my hips dislocating, ow, _ow,_ I’m not young anymore, Jay.”

“Stop complaining, old man,” Jason barks with no real heat, and just then, he realizes just how tired and sleepy he is. His body deserves rest after a week’s worth of work and a bout of energetic sex. “Imma go to sleep.”

Jason doesn’t bother to warn Dick before taking the older man into his arms, slotting their bodies together the way he likes it best; Dick’s face pressed against his chest, his nose in the older Alpha’s soft wavy hair, and their legs in a tangle of limbs. He thanks whatever deity is up there when his boyfriend finally settles down, but _of course_ he can always expect Dick to open his damn mouth.

“Jay,” the other man calls, and _what now, please, let’s just go the fuck to sleep._

The younger Alpha only manages an intelligible noise.

“Love ya,” Dick whispers to the air between them, and not long after, “wanna be able to love Timmy, too. God, I hope he’ll give us the chance to try to do so.”

Dick’s voice gets small at the end of his sentence, and Jason wills some energy into his fingers, moving them to brush against Dick’s cheek. The skin is warm and soft, pliant under his touch.

“Take it easy,” Jason breathes out, half lethargic but still firm enough for Dick to pay attention to what he’s saying, “small steps. We’re gonna do this right. ‘kay?”

The soft puff of breath against his shoulder is as good as a confirmation, and Jason burrows himself into the softness of the sheets, letting Dick’s warmth envelop him and gives his back for Dick to huddle into. Against his ribcage, Dick’s heart works in a constant, soft _thudthudthud,_ and Jason lets the sound guide him to the realm of oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FRIGGIN SWEAR I STARTED WITH LIKE 1.5K WORDS N ENDED UP WITH THIS MONSTER IM SORRY I WUFF YALL PLS PARDON ME *runs away in shame*
> 
> Also I. I like Jaydick much muCH more than I thought, but that’s kinda obvious at this point isn’t it? Yeah.
> 
> Annnnd as usual I have twitter drop a hi if u wanna ;)) [@timmydraqe](https://twitter.com/timmydraqe)


	5. These lights get bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of newcomers and old mistakes (and how to counter them).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a. Monster. FCKU I NEED TO HAVE MORE SELF CONTROL. Anyways do u see the small changes in the tags? U do? Good, coz that’s what this chapter is all about ;) hope u enjoy babes!<3
> 
> PS. Title taken from the usual song u know which one (the 3some song that I wuff)

The television unit is a 60 inch LED flat screen, modern as it is sleek, and the flat surface displays Tim Drake’s face; smooth and almost flesh-like in high definition. Pamela had been channel surfing when she came across the program, and had almost changed the channel if not for Janet asking her to turn up the volume. Pamela had raised her eyebrows in question but she was also quick to comply.

The program is a regular talk show where they invite influential people to share their views of nothing and everything. The list includes secondary genders and the issues surrounding them, apparently, which explains Tim Drake’s appearance. As a scientist and an Omega Elite, Tim upholds a highly controversial reputation, and his appearance is as good as any bait for the station to gain viewers.

Tim is accompanied by a young, attractive presenter who acts as a moderator, asking him questions and keeping him on track whenever he starts to ramble. That particular habit of his is still very much intact, Pamela notes with amused eyes, as Tim starts giving a highly detailed recount of the beauty of Borneo’s wilderness, complete with wild gestures of his hands. The presenter is quick to intercept, reacting to Tim’s story with a few appropriate chuckles before steering the discussion to the right direction once again.

A few minutes later, she asks him about his mating status, and Tim’s eyes go wide in mock surprise. There’s a sharp glint in arctic blue depth as he playfully ribs, “aw, this question wasn’t in the cue card.”

Pamela is almost certain that Tim had thoroughly enjoyed the few seconds of flailing that the presenter had done. She would’ve swooned if she could, because boy, her little nephew has grown _so much._

“I’m traditional, I guess,” Tim on TV shrugs lazily, “I won’t take a courting attempt seriously unless the person of interest does it directly. An offer from a pamphlet just seems too...impersonal.” Tim smiles again, artificially sweet, “so yeah, point is, I’m still waiting. Very patiently, I might add.”

“Nonsense,” Pamela comments, waving her hand at the television, “that oblivious kid wouldn’t recognize a courting attempt even if he was looking through a _microscope._ Excuse me, Janet,” she adds quickly, addressing the woman sitting beside her. Janet doesn’t make much of it, only nods before going back to stirring her tea.

“I will never understand your son, Janet,” Claire, a fellow Omega Elite, chirps in, “with his looks, his pedigree, and his intellect, he could have achieved _anything._ But he chose to let go of it all, and for what?”

Before Janet has the chance to reply, Pamela chimes in.

“At least the boy uses his mind for something,” Pamela counters, her tone sweetly saccharine but her smile razor sharp, “what have you been doing with that brain of yours, Claire, dear?”

Claire flinches back, clearly offended, but one look from Janet, and she hurries to stand up, leaving the group in hurried, flustered steps. Janet, Pamela, and Harvey—the ones left sitting in a little circle in front of the television—don’t spare a glance at her retreating form.

“That was uncalled for,” Janet reprimands when Claire is out of earshot, “we don’t need to make adversaries within our own inner circle, Pamela, not when we’re facing the threat of—” she glances at the television, where Tim is once again speaking of the dangers that the collars might pose to an Alpha’s wellbeing, “a reformation. An unwanted reformation.”

Pamela looks at her friend and fellow Omega Elite, eyebrows quirked. Janet Drake is hardly an agent of peace inside the exclusive circle of Elites—in fact, no one takes up that role because to be perfectly real, the dynamic between the Elites is the equivalent of a lengthy, convoluted version of Mean Girls. Or maybe that’s just Pamela’s opinion—and Pamela is sure she won’t start being all socially benign now.

But maybe, Pamela thinks as her eyes slide toward the image of Tim (smiling, confident, a hundred percent in his element) reflected on the screen, desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Tim’s out there doing what he believes in. I thought you’ve accepted that.”

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it. The boy is blessed with my wit, but he somehow associated himself with the likes of the _Waynes,_ ” Janet almost spits out the word, not bothering to hide her spite, “gossip mongrels are all over him, now, and it won’t be long before they get to me.” She takes a sip of tea, apparently to try to calm down. Pamela acknowledges the futility of the action, because Janet is gripping the cup hard enough for it to start chipping. “What a waste of time.”

“Ah, the Wayne Alphas,” Pamela singsongs, “I saw some of the pictures of Tim with the sons, Janet. They seem...awfully interested in Tim.”

“Huh, really?” Harvey shifts from his lounging position to grab a tablet, tapping on the thing for a few seconds before chuckling, “watch out, Janet. These boys are on a prowl and your pretty, pretty son might fall prey to them.”

Janet doesn’t grace them with a reaction. She only stares at her cup with hard eyes, as if the solution to all her problems is hiding on the base of the cup. “If Tim knows what’s good for him, he won’t let those uncollared mutts anywhere near him. They’re too dangerous.”

Despite the cool, almost robotic quality of her voice, Pamela can scent a bit of anxiety in the air, coming off of Janet in waves. She’s smart enough not to call her out on it, but it looks like Janet is still somewhat worried about Tim’s wellbeing. It’s quite a surprise, seeing as Janet seldom speaks about Tim ever since their fallout years ago.

Time to change the subject, then.

“Speaking of Waynes,” Pamela says, taking a sip of her tea before turning back to face Janet, “do you remember Bruce’s old flame? Talia?”

Janet demurely tilts her head—a gesture that Tim has picked up since his early years, and Pamela draws in a quick breath at how similar they look in that split second—and frowns a little. “The Beta Elite? She’s from the Middle East isn’t she?”

Pamela nods, recognizing the hidden meaning behind her friend’s tone. It’s not that Janet dislikes the Middle Eastern countries, but as an Omega Elite, the idea of Omegas as the most discriminated gender is quite disconcerting. Pamela is aware that the sentiment she bears for them is nothing personal, because Janet rarely bothers herself with ‘such trifle matters’. In fact, she makes a point to distance herself from the politics of ‘less developed countries,’ as she would put it. Talia is one of the rare exceptions, but maybe that has something to do with the fact that most of the Elites’ rare gem collections are provided by Talia’s business.

“I heard from somewhere that she was spotted in Gotham airport recently,” Pamela stage whispers, “not on arrivals, though. It seems like she was finished with whatever she had been doing here. I wonder what, though.”

Janet only makes a thoughtful humming noise while Harvey shrugs, getting back to his tablet. As her eyes fall on the brunette, a thought crosses Pamela’s mind.

“You know anything about this, Harv?” Pamela turns her attention to Harvey, who has been more of a spectator up to this point, “seeing as you are also,” a mischievous grin blooms on Pamela’s face, “Bruce’s old flame.”

Harvey barks out a laugh at that, sharp and amused. “We were more of an explosion, really,” the man corrects, pushing a hand through brunette hair while shaking his head, and Pamela has no doubt that some flashbacks are playing behind his eyes. “And no, I don’t know anything. I’d suggest you go ask Kent or one of Bruce’s sons—” Pamela doesn’t miss the way Janet’s eye twitch, “but you know how Bruce is with his Alphas. He gets royally territorial of them.”

Janet scoffs. “How ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously hot,” Pamela quips, grinning, “They’re equally territorial of Bruce, you know. I remember this one time at a party where poor ol’ Jack was looking at Bruce with inappropriate eyes. The Wayne Alphas just triangulated around Bruce, getting all _Alpha_ without being too obvious about it, if you know what I mean,” Pamela sighs dreamily, “yes, I know that it’s not acceptable, inappropriate, whatever, Janet, spare me your lecture, _please,_ ” Pamela brushes her hand on Janet’s shoulder, stopping her from commenting, “but it’s so. Intense, you know? They weren’t behaving aggressively or menacingly, but the show of raw instinct, of an Alpha’s protectiveness of a pack member, was more than a little obvious. I swear Kent’s eyes would’ve glowed red if they could.”

Pamela concludes her story with another dreamy sigh, and she doesn’t really care what Janet or the rest of the Elites think of her; she likes what she likes. Pamela enjoys being an Omega Elite—she won’t lie to herself, it’s a _great_ feeling to be the placed on the pedestal—but she doesn’t see it as her identity, either. She likes her Alpha slaves; they’re beautiful, obedient, and highly convenient to have around, but they ultimately serve as a social tool, and nothing more than that.

She doesn’t feel any kind of attachment to her slaves, and even though she cares about them to an extent, she knows that she wouldn’t be that affected if they were to be taken from her. Some degree of sadness, maybe, but not a sense of loss. Her slaves are trained in the art of pleasing Omegas, but she has always felt that collared Alphas lack a defining characteristic, one that sends her senses tingling whenever she’s near one of the Wayne Alphas.

Lost in her train of thought, Pamela almost misses the way Harvey perks up, looking genuinely interested in her story. “And Bruce?”

Pamela laughs, a high, tinkling sound. “He scoffed and told them to stand down. How _else_ do you think he was going to react?”

“Touché,” Harvey chuckles, and Pamela is almost tempted to high five him. Unlike Janet, Harvey and Pamela don’t see the Waynes as a symbol of abomination in their society or something of the sort. They just think that they’re highly amusing, a welcome anomaly to their admittedly boring social life. Bruce has his Alphas in his own version of leash, and their interactions are always so entertaining to watch.

“Seriously, though, I’m curious,” Pamela goes back to the topic at hand, “why the secrecy? If she’s in Gotham to deal stones, she would’ve alerted Janet, or at least me.”

The act is peculiar indeed, and Pamela can’t help some of the wild ideas that spark up inside of her head. Did she have a meeting with Bruce? If so, what would be so urgent that she had to come to Gotham herself? Or maybe it was to establish a permanent branch of her business here?

“It’s no use for us to ponder aimlessly,” Janet says, calm as a millpond, “the truth will come to light eventually. And if it doesn’t concern us, then it will remain irrelevant.”

Pamela hears the finality in her tone, and she doesn’t protest when Janet finally turns the television off. Her eyes are back to their usual state; sharp and critical, with a perpetual coldness glazing the electric blues.

 _Like mother, like son,_ Pamela thinks as she takes a sip from her own cup of tea.

 

***

 

Dick doesn’t live in the manor anymore, but he visits frequent enough that Alfred keeps his old room tidied and comfortable. He’s been staying over since Saturday, and he vaguely remembers falling asleep in Jason’s arms after a Lord of the Rings marathon. The younger man is no longer with him, has not been for a while, if the cooling sheets against his skin is any evidence.

He yawns, wiggles around in the bed to absorb the coolness of the sheets into his skin, and finally decides that he needs to get out of bed and face the day. It’s a Sunday, so he’s pretty sure that things are going to be slow and easy. He knows for a fact that Jason doesn’t have anything planned for today, so maybe they can marathon something as they eat lunch, cuddle some more, cook something fancy for dinner and discuss courting plans in bed. (And maybe if they get in the mood, Dick can get Jay to fuck his thighs this time. Maybe rim him. Whichever’s good, really.) All in all, he’s got the day pretty much figured out.

Dick smiles in contentment and makes his way toward the bathroom to freshen up. He picks up his toothbrush, and is in the middle of slowly brushing through molars when his sensitive nose picks up a distinct scent.

It’s a concoction of anxiety, confusion, and more than a little of white hot _anger,_ with an underlying of _Jason._ Sensing his partner in distress, Dick quickly rinses his mouth and rushes out of the bathroom, snatching a dressing gown along the way to make himself somewhat acceptable. He can imagine Alfred’s small, disapproving frown in his head, but right now he can’t bring himself to care. 

“Jay!” Dick exclaims, hurrying down the stairs to approach his lover, who’s in the middle of a confrontation with another Alpha.

Jason’s lips are pulled back in a sneer, baring his teeth to his adversary, who is a—

Kid?

“Who the fuck...” Dick hears himself mutter, but quickly snaps back to action. He lays a hand on Jason’s arm and frowns when he feels just how tight the muscles are. Despite his rugged exterior, Jason rarely gets wind up like this. He was sort of turbulent as a teenager, but he had outgrown that phase long ago. In his recent years, Jason is mostly laid back and surprisingly sweet, with a smattering of sarcasm here and there. It’s been a while since anything has managed to make Jason react like this.

“Jason, stop,” Dick tries, stepping closer into Jason’s personal space to let him get a whiff of his scent; of partner, family, _security._ It doesn’t do much good, evident from the way Jason’s body stays coiled tight, his stance offensive. Just what the heck happened?

“Lemme go, Dick,” Jason growls, “this kid waltzed in ‘ere, announced that he’s the rightful Wayne heir or whatever, ‘n said some fuckin’ condesendin’ things ‘bout you ‘n me. Wanna repeat what ya said ‘bout him, ya little fucker?”

“I said,” the youngest in the room says, and Dick is more than a little surprised at how deep his voice sounds, “that the two of you are overextending your welcome in my father’s house. You’re not his real sons, and as the one who inherits his blood, I have every right to demand that you walk out of that door.”

Dick really doesn’t know what so say to that, so he scoffs. “Nice monologue, kid. Who the fuck are you, again?”

“Do not use that tone with me, Grayson,” the kid barks out, leaning forward as if ready to charge, “My name is Damian Wayne, and as the lawful heir of the Wayne house, I deem the both of you unworthy to keep associating yourselves with the name my father has kindly bestowed upon you,” he scoffs, a haughty expression settling on his features, “he never should have done so. The legacy shouldn’t be tainted by people of lesser heritage.”

Okay, that needs a whole lot of processing, and what did that brat say about _lesser heritage?_ However, before the older Alphas can react, the door that leads to the front porch—located only a few meters away from where they’re all standing—swings open. Alfred is the first person to enter the manor, followed by a noticeably smaller figure.

The kid’s—Damian’s—attention is immediately diverted to the newcomers, and if Dick’s sense of smell is to be relied on, the person who is walking right into the scene is—

“You,” the boy says, pointing a finger at Tim’s figure. The Omega is still in the middle of untying his shoe laces, body bent at an angle. By the way his eyebrows quirk in puzzlement, it’s clear that Tim hasn’t expected to be the center of attention as soon as he walks into the manor.

“Uh,” Tim voices out, confusion palpable, “yes? I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“How nice of Father to grant me with an Omega as soon as I arrive,” the way Damian’s eyes roam through Tim’s body is ten kinds of unacceptable, and Dick has to remind himself not to charge like a mindless animal. “You are not as beautiful as some of my slaves back home, but you would have to do.” He tilts his head to the side, hand resting on his chin, “although, I must confess. Those eyes are the most unusual.”

As much as Dick wants to sock the brat right on his teeth for speaking about Tim like he’s nothing more than an object, he also has to agree. Tim’s eyes, which are now wide as saucers, are a shade of pale blue. However, as pale as they are, there’s nothing muted about them. They carry a sharp glint to them, a sign of intellect and inherent willfulness, and the sharpness serves to bring out his features, making his eyes the most prominent part of his face.

“Slaves?” It shouldn’t be surprising that the slavery part is the one Tim focuses on instead of, you know, that _comment_ about his eyes.

At that exact moment, it seems that Damian realizes something, because his eyes narrow considerably.

“You are not cared for,” is Damian’s observation, sharp and irritated, “an Omega who is not cared for, at your age? Mother did tell me that your people are ignorant, but I did not expect this kind of atrocity.”

With that, Damian strides forward in quick steps, taking Tim’s face in the cradle of his palm before the older man can protest.

“They are even more breathtaking up close,” Damian mutters, referring to Tim’s eyes—which are on the verge of bulging out, “It would be an honor to claim you.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute, time out!” Tim rushes backwards, almost toppling over if not for Alfred’s dependable hand preventing his fall, “dude, bro, little man, I’m gonna repeat myself because you went and run your mouth without even answering the simplest of questions; _who are you?_ ”

The air around Damian becomes menacing in .05 seconds, and Dick steps forward in one sleek motion, preparing himself to defend, attack, or do whatever he needs to do to keep Tim safe. He doesn’t have to look to his side to know that Jason is doing the same, only with more power to the swivel of his hips.

“Are all Omegas in this country this insolent?” Damian barks out, clearly angry, “or is it just you?”

Dick sees it when realization dawns on Tim, and the Omega addresses no one in particular when he whispers, “oh God, he’s definitely not from here, is he.”

Tim is quick to look at Damian again, bending down to accommodate their height difference. Dick has no doubt that Tim is taking in Damian’s features (the cut of his jaw, so familiar even with the residual baby fat, the aristocratic nose, the shape of his eyes, all the small telltales), the tan of his skin, the accent, and the way he has behaved to finally conclude—

“You’re Bruce’s son,” Tim breathes out, incredulous, “biological son...?”

His observation trails off into an inquiry, and he turns to Dick and Jason for answers. However, the youngest Alpha beats them to it.

“Yes, I am my father’s true son,” he boasts, hand on his chest, “the true heir of the Wayne name. Those two,” he gestures to the older Alphas, “are mere stand-ins before I arrive.”

“Oh, this lil’ shit,” Jason doesn’t even bother hiding his hostility, and he bodily wrestles himself out of Dick’s grip to charge at Damian.

“Where’s Bruce?” As if driven by a new sense of purpose, Tim rushes into the main hall, not paying the slightest amount attention to the display of Alpha aggression that’s playing out just behind him. “We need to have a talk, _now._ ”

Alfred steps forward to match Tim’s strides, and calmly informs him that, “Master Bruce is in the middle of accompanying Master Clark through his Rut. They have been preoccupied since Thursday, and I can only assume that he has been too busy to alert you of the circumstances. My most sincere apology, Master Tim.”

“Oh, great,” Tim’s eyes roll heavenward, exasperated, “that kind of explains why he hasn’t gone all Spartan on these guys,” he waves to where Jason and Damian are baring their teeth at one another, “and it’s okay, Alfred, it’s no one’s fault. It’s fucking biology, business as usual.”

The old butler reprimands Tim on his choice of words, his expression betraying nothing but cryptic solemnity.

Dick’s eyes flit back and forth between the divided parties—Tim and Alfred to his left (how are they so _relaxed?_ ), Jason and Damian to his right—and he feels a headache building behind his eyelids. Jason is still exchanging verbal jabs with Damian, but his words are now tinged with deep growls. From Dick’s vantage point, he can see the way Jason’s fists are balled into fists. Damian isn’t much better, if the way his eyes shine with something feral is any indication. This has to stop before it escalates. Before someone gets hurt.

Just as Damian takes that one step forward, prompting Jason to react accordingly by preparing to meet him halfway, Dick sees a blur of movement from his left. Tim has somehow leapt from his position beside Alfred to end up between Jason and Damian. His hands are small, steel claws, digging into Jason’s bicep and Damian’s forearm without mercy.

“Enough,” Tim growls, his teeth bared. It’s rare for Omegas to channel raw aggression, and it’s obvious that none of the Alphas present have seen the display before, because Jason and Damian grow silent out of pure bafflement. Dick can’t bring himself to feel remotely ashamed that he’s still rooted on the spot because _holy shit, that’s hot._ It looks like Jason shares his sentiment, because the narrowing of his eyes is a familiar gesture that Dick would recognize anytime; Jason usually wears that expression every time he can’t decide whether he’s angry or turned on.

When it’s clear that the Alphas won’t continue their fight, Tim releases his hold and takes a few steps back, keeping a respectable distance while still holding eye contact. “We really, _really_ don’t have time for this,” Tim grits out, “we need to wait for Bruce, and—”

“Tim,” the voice comes from somewhere above them, and five sets of eyes are immediately drawn to the top of the stairs. Sure enough, Bruce is standing there with Clark hovering just behind him, as if he’s not quite ready to be separated from the other man. Dick understands that feeling; even though Clark’s Rut has passed, the residual hormones would still be there, usually manifesting in elevated possessive behavior toward his mate.

Bruce doesn’t seem to mind. He continues to walk down the stairs, not even a hitch in his steps as he approaches the congregation below. It’s a remarkable feat, considering he’s just spent rigorous hours of helping an Alpha go through his Rut. Something protective in Dick’s chest tugs at his heartstrings, but he takes one look at Clark—strong, gentle, empathetic, reliable Clark—and feels his inner Alpha calm down. He can trust Clark to treat his father how he deserves to be treated.

“Thank you for coming, Tim,” Bruce starts, addressing the Omega with a small, apologetic smile, “I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to alert you of the...situation.” Steel blue eyes slide to where his sons are standing, and Dick reflexively stands up straighter, muffling a hysterical laugh when he realizes that Jason and Damian are doing the same. It looks like Tim also doesn’t miss the younger Alphas’ reactions, because he’s staring at the interaction with something akin to amazement in his eyes until he finally realizes that Bruce has spoken to him.

“It’s okay, Bruce, it was an emergency, after all,” he assures, giving Clark a two-fingered salute that the Alpha returns with amusement, “I can sort of guess why you need me here,” Tim redirects his arctic gaze to fall on Bruce’s sons, and whispers, “we need to talk.”

“Indeed,” Bruce doesn’t even look surprised that Tim is able to read through his intentions. “We have a lot to cover.”

 

***

 

“You’re gonna be alright?” Clark asks, his hand cupping the sharp cut of Bruce’s jaw, “I can take another day off, Bruce, seriously.”

“You don’t have to,” Bruce gently turns him down, “I’m going to be just fine. Dick and Jason are here, so you don’t need to worry. Emergency at the Planet, right? Go and save the day, Clark. Don’t let Perry talk you down for being a ‘big, hulking mess of an Alpha.’”

Clark chuckles softly, “he hasn’t called me that in long time, love.”

“Don’t give him any reason to,” Bruce surges forward to take Clark’s mouth in an easy kiss, and Clark’s hand is quick to settle on the juncture where Bruce’s neck slopes into his shoulder. The area is decorated with violet hematomas, and Clark’s thumb gently circles around the discoloration. Tim can’t decide if the movement is meant to soothe the bruising, or to press the mark even deeper into Bruce’s skin, a sign of Alpha possessiveness that Clark rarely shows when the couple is out in public.

Tim averts his eyes to let them have a semblance of privacy. He can feel his cheeks heat up because Clark’s scent is uncannily noticeable, most of it concentrated around him and Bruce. It’s a smell that Tim recognizes and associates with Alphas who are fresh out of Rut, strong enough to carry through the air for Tim’s nose to pick up.

Dick and Jason don’t look the least bit perturbed, most likely used to the display of intimacy. The brat’s—Damian’s—expression is still twisted in a scowl, but other than perpetual annoyance, he doesn’t seem to project any other emotion. Tim feels like the odd one out, and tries to cover the awkwardness by focusing on an old grandfather clock that looks like it could easily be twice Tim’s age.

“Go, Clark. I’ll see you tonight,” Bruce whispers after breaking the kiss, and Clark nuzzles into his neck one last time before gently knocking his forehead with the Beta’s. The exchange of _I love yous_ is hushed, muted enough that Tim can’t pick it up by hearing, but the couple’s body language is enough to convey the emotions.

A moment later, Clark lets go of Bruce and waves at the other occupants in the room before making his way toward the entrance. His absence leaves a noticeable niche; and it acts as a reminder that they have to face the next instance, almost like the calm before a storm.

“Did you let him claim you, Father?” Damian’s voice breaks through the tense atmosphere, startling every single one of them except for Bruce, who is looking at his son with a contemplative look on his face.

“The word _claiming_ would suggest one way action, something that is done by a single party. My relationship with Clark is based on mutual consent and reciprocation. I give him something of mine, and he gives me something of his in return. It’s more than just an act of claiming.”

Damian is frowning throughout the explanation, like the words out of Bruce’s mouth had been spoken in a language that he isn’t familiar with. Bruce doesn’t seem to miss the edge of confusion in his features, because the Beta’s chest extends in a small sigh.

“Damian,” Bruce begins, bending down to match the boy’s height, “would you accompany me to my study?”

It takes a while, but Damian finally nods his assent. Bruce flashes him a small smile and guides him out of the recreation room, keeping a large hand on the boy’s shoulder. Tim doesn’t miss the way Jason and Dick’s eyes linger on that point of contact. As someone who grows up without a father figure, he can’t possibly understand what they are going through, but it doesn’t need a genius to read the stiffness of their expressions.

He surreptitiously makes his way toward the tray of tea and snacks that Alfred has prepared earlier—the man is a miracle worker—and silently makes three servings. He doesn’t know how Dick and Jason prefer their tea, so he leaves them as it is, and puts two cubes of sugar inside of his own.

The Alphas are still lost in their own heads when he approaches the long armchair where they’re sitting, their eyes glued to the table in front of them. It doesn’t look like they’re actually _seeing_ anything, though, because they don’t show any sign of reaction when Tim sets the tray on top of said table.

“Hey,” Tim calls out, and two pairs of blue eyes abruptly fix themselves on his form, as if noticing him for the first time, “I made tea. No, actually, I _poured_ tea. I don’t know how you guys prefer yours, so,” he flashes them a sheepish smile, hoping the gesture will somehow dissipate the tension.

Jason, bless his soul, is the first one to react, giving him a wry chuckle before saying, “that’s sweet of ya, sugar, thanks. Oh, and I like mine without.”

It takes some time for Tim to process Jason’s sentence, and he twists his lips when he finally understands the double meaning. “You’re hilarious,” he deadpans.

“And you’re an angel,” Dick raises his voice from beside Jason, and Tim almost flushes when he receives one of Dick’s warm, sunny smile. Tim’s heart wrenches for a painful beat when he realizes that a shadow of cloud hovers over the expression.  For a split second, he finds himself thinking that he’d do anything to make the shadows go away. “Thanks, Tim,” Dick says again, moving to pour some milk into his tea. Tim stores the information in his brain for later purposes.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, and proceeds to take a sip of his own drink. The tea is sweet, and the aroma is calming, a welcome distraction to Dick and Jason’s Alpha scent. It’s not that they smell bad—they always smell good, almost unfairly so—but Tim can pick up anxiety and a bit of sorrow in their scent, and he it makes his inner Omega itch with the urge to soothe their frayed instincts.

It’s not a good idea to act on that particular urge, so Tim makes sure to keep himself in check.

“Uh, sorry you had to see that,” Dick cuts through the silence, a wry smile on his face, “that was supposed to be family business, nothing you should worry about or concern yourself with. But believe me, Tim, we’re as surprised as you are.”

“Yeah, I kinda gathered,” Tim replies, “though to be fair, no one can possibly prepare themselves for that brat. He sure has a...personality.”

Jason scoffs. “Understatement of the friggin’ year, Timmers.”

They break into quiet chuckles, and Tim feels his inner Omega relaxing at that simple display of joy. He can do this much, at least.

“What d’ya think they’re talkin’ about?” Jason suddenly wonders out loud, as if he can’t help himself.

“Dunno,” Tim answers honestly, “but it looks like Bruce is giving him the intro; how our society works, the established caste system, and the like.”

“That runt won’t survive five seconds out there.”

Tim sighs in the wake of Jason’s admission. It’s cruel, but it’s also the cold, hard fact.

“He needs to be able to adapt,” comes out of Tim’s mouth almost reflexively. He cushions his chin on top of laced fingers, a pose that he often takes when he’s deep in thought. “A full one eighty of how people treat him back in his home country... Somewhere in Middle East? Yeah, that sounds about right, if his accent is to be taken into consideration. He’s in for a _really_ unpleasant shock. Fuck, how do we get him to conform to the ways of—no, not _conform,_ that implies forming him into something he’s not... We need to _ease_ him into it, but how best to do that? The boy looks like he’s sixteen, at most, fresh off his very first Rut, so his hormone levels are—wait, he’s an Alpha...? But Bruce is Beta, so just how the hell—”

“Uh, Tim?” the hesitant note of Dick’s voice snaps Tim out of his reverie, and he raises his head to see the older man looking at him in a weird mixture of concern and amusement. Tim wants the floor to open up and swallow his sorry self into the nearest gaping void because _fuck, he’s been thinking out loud._ Again.

“B’s back,” Jason supplies, pointing at Bruce’s hulking figure, now sitting at the other end of the table, opposite of Tim and his sons.

A red flush works its way down Tim’s face, staining the skin all the way down to his neck. He lets out a dramatic groan, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes as he moans out his misery. “Did you guys catch all that...?” he asks, already dreading the answer.

The Wayne pack look at one another in surreptitious sidelong glances, which, _isn’t discreet at all, guys, please._ Tim waves (flails) a dismissive hand and clears his throat. “Sorry about that, and can you please also _forget_ about that, thankyouverymuch.”

“If it’ll make you feel any better, Tim, those are some really good points.” Bruce is his usual level headed self, but a hint of mirth is visible in his eyes. Tim brushes his bangs off his forehead, seeking a breeze (it doesn’t come), and forces himself to face his conversation partners.

“Okay,” he breathes out, “okay, I’m all good now,” and then, in an admittedly desperate attempt to shift the focus from himself, “um, where’s Damian?”

“He prefers to stay in the study,” Bruce informs, leaning forward to make a cup of tea for himself. “I gave him some reading materials on the things that he needs to be aware of; the Elites, the basis of our caste system, and how it’s instilled in our society. It seems like he’s a bright young man, because—”

“Oh, you gave him some books,” Dick suddenly throws out, purposefully harsh, “that’s great, Bruce, that’s just _stellar._ Give the boy a window to the world and let him jump out of it by his own, huh?”

The bitter lilt of Dick’s sentence sets everyone on edge. Tim morphs his expression into one of neutrality, trying his best to hide his shock at Dick’s outburst. The ever stoic Bruce gives a twitch of his lips, his whole disposition closing up before turning into something authoritative, aloof and menacing at the same time.

“We don’t have time for pointless animosity, Dick,” Bruce grits out, squaring his shoulders, “there are things that need to be addressed—”

“Yeah?” The interruption comes abruptly, Jason’s displeasure shown through hard eyes, “well, first, we gotta _address_ why you kept the brat’s existence a secret from us. Didn’tcha think that we might wanna know, Bruce? That we’ve the _right_ to know?”

The lines around Bruce’s mouth tighten even further, and he falls quiet. It’s a weighty kind of silence that fills every second with trickles of invisible smoke, suffocating the air even as it remains clear. As an outsider, Tim does not dare to utter a word, knowing his position in the discussion.

In the confines of his mind, two urges are warring against each other. The highly rational, logical part of him wants to bolt out of the room, or at least make his presence as inconspicuous as possible. This is clearly a discussion that he shouldn’t be privy of, and he’s acutely aware of that. The other part—the one that is dominated by his inner O—is fidgeting, frustrated by the restless energy that is coming off of the Alphas and the Beta in incessant waves.

As an Omega, his role is to be the yin of the circle, the buffer who willingly absorbs their packmate’s aggression in an attempt to bring balance into the pack. The urges—to plead, fall upon his knees, coax the aggression out of the _(his, his, aren’t they his? No,_ please, _don’t do this now)_ Alphas with purrs and caresses and “no, please, don’t be mad, don’t be _sad,_ use me, it’s okay to use me, however you want, whenever you want, I can take it, I’m strong enough, I’m an Omega, _your Omega,_ ” in urgent whispers and half-mast eyes—are strong, getting stronger each second, and Tim locks his body tight, not wanting to show just how much he _needs._

Despite being the one whose senses are the dullest, Bruce is the first one to notice Tim’s condition.

“Tim,” he mutters, color draining from his face. He’s quick to face his sons again, his tone urgent as he says, “Dick, Jason, stop this. You’re making Tim—”

“No!” Tim exclaims, and the loudness of his voice surprises even himself. He doesn’t want to hear whatever word Bruce was going to use to describe his current predicament, so he coughs and casts his gaze to the ground. He curls his shoulders and bows his head, not wanting to look as understanding flickers upon the Alphas’ faces. This is embarrassing enough as it is. “No, please, I’m fine. Just fine, so _please._ Please answer his question, Bruce. They deserve an explanation.”

He’s still looking at the ground when Bruce opens his mouth again, “I wanted to be well prepared when I finally talked to you about the situation. This is much more complicated than meets the eye, and at the very least, I wanted to have a clear basis so I could present options and solutions. I felt like with the help of Tim’s professional opinion, we could establish all of those things. I didn’t take into account that he would arrive a week ahead of schedule, and that I would be busy with Clark’s rut. It was an error in my judgement.”

Dick and Jason heave a collective sigh, as if expecting the answer. Tim decides to take a chance and lifts his head. What he sees makes the corner of his mouth give an upward tug, because even though the Alphas look exasperated, the anger and tension are beginning to dissipate from their disposition. Jason meets his hesitant gaze, and his eyes are genuinely remorseful when he mouths an _I’m sorry, sugar._ Tim grins and gives him a surreptitious little thumb’s up, and Jason beams back at him before turning to address Bruce.

“Nah, ain’t yer fault, Bruce,” he sighs, cracking his neck to ease the tautness there, “just shitty coincidences stackin’ on top of one another. You keepin’ it all a secret is still an asshole move, though. Shoulda came to us as soon as Talia rang ya.”

“God, I,” Dick suddenly raises his voice from beside Jason, “I’m sorry, Bruce, what I said was uncalled for, but just listen, okay? This isn’t a science lab or a crime scene or whatever, this is our _family._ You can talk to us without having a _clear basis,_ Bruce, did you really think that we were gonna judge you? It’s okay to be confused ‘cause we’ll be there to support you, okay?”

Bruce still keeps his silence, his mouth a grim line.

“Look, what I’m trying to say is,” Dick squeezes his eyes close for a second, and when he opens them again, the blue is somehow more prominent, “don’t go keeping things to yourself when you know for a fact that you have us around. I get that you think it’ll make more sense if we were to have this talk with Tim around, but it doesn’t hurt to give us a head’s up. A simple ‘I have something to talk to you about’ would be nice.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, hanging his head to avoid making eye contact with the younger Alphas, “I just... I didn’t know where to begin, I guess.”

“I know y’are,” Jason abruptly says, moving a hand to ruffle through his hair, “just. Don’t keep us in the dark like that again, Bruce. We’re adults, ya know. And we’re yer Alphas.”

Tim catches the underlying meaning of those words. _We’re here to stand with you, to take care of you._ He smiles; a small, private upturn of his lips. The Wayne pack may have their shortcomings, but their foundation is strong; built upon their desire to protect and take care of one another.

“I understand,” Bruce finally says after a few beats, “thank you.”

Jason chuckles while Dick shakes his head, as if expecting the short and clipped words, but they don’t press the issue. Both Alphas regard their father with exasperated fondness, familiar and warm, and Tim remembers what Damian said. He blabbered something about Dick and Jason being mere stand-ins before Damian’s arrival, and Tim has to aggressively disagree.

The bond between Bruce and his sons—his partners, his protectors, his Alphas—run deeper than blood. It’s something that has gone through brambles and thorns, proving itself to withstand the test of time. Personality wise, both Jason and Dick are passionate, and it serves as a good balance to Bruce’s stubborn, logical mind, a brand of personality that sometimes leads to emotionally stinted reactions. Despite the differences, they’re a strong pack with equally strong foundations, and Tim has no doubt that they would be able to withstand anything, as long as they stand together.

Tim allows them to have a moment of familiar, companionable silence. He still feels the remnants of his inner Omega’s urges, but it’s nothing another cup of tea can’t fix. After making himself another cup, and as breathing becomes easier, he tries to reopen the delayed discussion.

“So, the boy?” Tim prompts, hoping to carry the conversation in the right direction.

As if fine-tuned to Tim’s state of mind, Bruce doesn’t miss a beat before opening his mouth. “I have solid reasons to believe that he’s my son with a lady named Talia.”

“No shit,” Jason quips, “the brat’s practically mini you in Talia’s colors.”

Bruce gives him a side-eye that could freeze the Sahara. Jason waves it off with a flick of his wrist.

“As I was saying,” Bruce continues, “that scenario is most likely—I’m almost one hundred percent sure—but Damian just celebrated his fifteenth birthday, and Talia and I haven’t been intimate for more than two decades. There’s also the case that both of us are Betas.”

The last detail makes Tim pause. This was one of the issues that he rambled about earlier; coupling between Betas very rarely produce Alpha and/or Omega children. There’s a miniscule chance of recessive A gene to show up, but in most cases, a Beta woman who carries Alpha babies doesn’t survive the delivery. Alphas are strong and demanding, even in their fetal stage, and only Omegas are strong enough to safely carry and deliver baby Alphas.

“Seeing as Talia is still alive and well, I have a suspicion that Damian might be,” Bruce pauses, hesitancy coloring his tone, “genetically engineered.”

A gasp leaks out of Tim’s mouth, and he sounds more than a little breathless when he says, “A genetically engineered Alpha?”

Bruce’s nod is solemn. “I believe his mother is responsible for it. I’ve done things that I’m not proud of, back when I was younger, but this one,” the Beta shakes his head, “I didn’t even _think_ about all the possible repercussions when I decided to indulge Talia’s request.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate what kind of request it was.

“It’s truly ironic how one error from a man’s past can lead to disastrous results in the present,” Bruce’s voice is small, bitter, and full of remorse, “now a _child_ has to bear the brunt of my misjudgment.”

“Bruce, please stop,” Tim pleads, leaning forward to make sure that the older man is paying attention to him, “this is not the time to place blame, or to dwell on what happened in the past. We have to prepare ourselves for what’s to come.”

Bruce looks at him with electric blue eyes. They’re uncharacteristically tempestuous, reflecting the older man’s fears and self-loathing. It’s just like Bruce to blame himself for things that he ultimately has no control of, and Tim makes it his mission to take at least a bit of that perpetual weight off of the Beta’s shoulders.

“Okay.” Bruce regards him with level eyes for a moment, and then, “thank you, Tim. I really appreciate that you’re here with us.”

“Okay,” Tim mimics, grinning up at Bruce in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, “and you know that I’m happy to help in any way I can. May I address the first issue?” he asks, and takes a deep breath when the Beta nods.

“ _Four_  Alphas in a pack without an Omega, Bruce. This isn’t unheard of, but this will greatly affect the dynamic, especially considering how young Damian is.” Tim lays out, mindful of how urgent the situation is. He knows that Bruce is stronger than most Betas—heck, maybe even stronger than some Alphas—but having four Alphas in a pack without an Omega around to balance the aggression is bordering on unhealthy. Tim is aware that Dick and Jason are in a relationship, so they can balance each other out pretty well, but Damian is a whole different case.

The boy is a young Alpha, fresh out of his very first Rut. At this point, most Alphas are full of rigorous energy, filled to the brim with overwhelming eagerness for competition and a desire to claim. To put it in layman’s term, adolescent Alphas are pain in the butts. (Tim doesn’t even want to imagine the kind of headache that Bruce had to deal with when Dick and Jason just went through their first Ruts).

There’s also the case of overlapping Ruts. The level of Alpha hormones in the pack would be off the charts. Without an Omega around, it would lead to disastrous results.

“I’m aware,” Bruce declares, his voice uncharacteristically weak, “that is partly why I’ve asked for your audience. I need your professional opinions on how I—we—all should deal with this new development.”

Tim chews his lip. In the back of his mind, he has come up with a possible solution, but he knows that what he’s about to say is controversial at best, but he has to try. It’s the best solution that he can offer; one that can ease Damian into the ways of their society without forcing or coercing, as well as introduce him to the values that the Wayne pack is built upon.

“Bruce,” Tim begins, speaking in that unique way of his; all quiet and solemn, but still demands attention, “I may be needed for more than just professional opinion. How do you feel about hiring a tutor?”

All eyes are on him now, and Tim prepares himself for the onslaught of questions. They don’t come, but the way Dick’s eyes widen as the realization dawns on him and the way Jason inhales a sharp breath are signs that his idea may not be well received. Bruce is the one who voices it out, though, his tone uncharacteristically urgent.

“Tim, you’re not insinuating—”

“I’m afraid I am.” Tim confirms, prompting Jason to open his mouth to argue. The Omega only looks at him with serious eyes, putting a hand in front of him to keep the protests at bay. “Please let me finish, Jason. We all need to be level headed for this, forget about instincts for a while.”

The Alpha bites his bottom lip to keep from growling, but he begrudgingly calms down. “Fine. But one stupid thing outta that mouth, ‘n I’m callin’ ya on yer bullshit.”

The quip manages to pull a chuckle out of Tim, and he flashes Jason a big grin that he hopes is reassuring. “Don’t worry. My understanding of this stuff is quite dependable, so you can count on me to be not-stupid.”

The retort earns him a laugh from Jason, a grin from Dick, and a small smile from Bruce. He returns the gestures with a smile of his own, before taking a deep breath and continues.

“So, Bruce,” he addresses the Beta, “to my understanding, you had trained Dick and Jason with artificial Omega pheromones until they finally hit legal age, and that is how you’ve been able to keep your pack so well balanced, even without an Omega within your midst.”

Bruce nods, confirming everything Tim just said. “I know it’s unconventional, even illegal in some countries. But it’s a much more preferable method than the alternative.”

“The collar,” Dick supplies, his voice quiet. 

The occupants of the room don’t bother to hide their disgust at the mention of the appendage. Tim uncurls his mouth before continuing.

“I’m not saying I don’t approve of your methods, Bruce. A more conventional scientist might not agree, but I personally don’t see the harms of using artificial pheromones as long as they are used within appropriate dosage and acceptable timeframes. With how Dick and Jason have turned out to be, I can assume that you administered the proper dosage. Any more or any less might bear...unfortunate results.”

The Beta appears to be calm, but the miniscule tightening of his jaw is telling enough for anyone who knows him well. “I did a thorough study on the cause and effect of the artificial pheromones on developing Alphas. Leslie helped me all throughout, so I could further minimize the risk of overexposure or, God forbid, dependency on the substance,” he explains, and Tim knows that the person he’s referring to is Dr. Leslie Thompkins, a family friend who also happens to be Gotham’s most brilliant doctor. “In theory, I could apply the same kind of treatment on Damian, but—”

“You don’t have sufficient information on his physiology,” Tim supplies, his voice grim.

“Exactly,” Bruce concedes, “and I doubt Talia would simply divulge the information. She is not very happy with me right now.”

“So we try to convince her,” Dick offers, “this is strictly family business, Bruce, we don’t have to involve Tim.”

If the line was said in any other tone, Tim would have taken offence. And yet, Dick sounds sincerely worried for his wellbeing. Tim hides a soft smile behind his fist, because even though the sentiment is unnecessary, it’s deeply appreciated.

“Do we have that kind of time, Bruce?” Tim asks, to which Bruce only sighs in response.

“Realistically, we can make time,” he admits, “as we wait for Talia to respond, Damian can stay in the manor with me and Alfred. To avoid clashes between Alphas, Dick and Jason would need to _not_ engage him in any way, and Clark can start educating him on how Alphas are regarded in our society,” Bruce’s gaze falls on Tim again, “but something tells me that you’re going to present an argument that would inevitably support your reasoning, aren’t you, Tim? So let’s hear it.”

An apologetic smile decorates Tim’s lips for a split second before it’s all business again, and he looks at the other occupants of the room without hesitation.

“Damian is _fifteen,_ ” Tim slams the cold, hard nail on the coffin, “fresh off his first rut. It’s a crucial age, and he needs to be around a _real_ Omega to learn how the world—how _this_ world works. To learn how to treat all genders as humans. The way he treated me back there... Let’s just say I have a lot to say about his mother’s idea of education.”

Bruce purses his mouth. “Talia actually isn’t that bad, all things considered. It’s her father who is...highly traditional.”

Judging by Bruce’s tone of voice, a lot of things are implied in that simple phrase.

Dick throws his head back in exasperation at the mention of Talia’s father. “Ah, good ol’ Ra’s,” he exclaims, “how old is he gonna be this year?”

“No one knows for sure, Dick,” Bruce supplies, and then frowns, “he doesn’t look like he ages like normal people do, and there’s that rumor of him having a fountain of youth somewhere in the country.”

“Which he offered to me when I was _fifteen,_ ” Jason quips, not bothering to hide the horror in his voice, “creepiest moment of my entire fuckin’ life, n’ I was there during Dickie’s disco phase.”

Dick gapes at his boyfriend, a protest on the tip of his tongue, but Jason stops him with a hand to his mouth. “Stop, babe. Just. ‘m sorry for bringing that up, but let’s not dwell on that topic, yeah? Back to Ra’s n’ his creepy ways.”

Tim eyes the exchange with interest, taking note to ask Jason for physical evidence of this _disco phase._ Bruce looks like he wants the topic to end as soon as possible, but Jason decides to prolong his misery. “He’s the kind of Alpha who swears undying love for his mate, but also has Omega harems stationed in ev’ry corner of the country.”

“Sounds like a bundle of joy,” Tim snarks, “can’t wait to meet him.”

Bruce’s eyes are completely serious when they fix on him. “God, Tim, I hope it will never, _ever_ come to that.”

The younger Alphas ceremoniously offer their agreement, and Tim has to wonder just what kind of person this Ra’s character is. Naturally inquisitive as he is, he can’t help the tendrils of curiosity that work their way inside of his mind. The other men seem genuinely horrified by the idea of him meeting the guy, though, so he lets it slide for now.

“Back to the topic at hand,” he urges, “like I said earlier, I still think that the direct approach is the right way to go; he needs to know what to do around a real Omega. Artificial pheromones can only do so much, and at this point of his life, we’d be making a gamble, Bruce,” he stresses, making sure that everyone understands the importance of what he’s trying to say, “we don’t know if the substance would do more good or harm.”

Tim pauses, allowing the Wayne pack to take a breather.

“I know you only want what’s best for him, Bruce, and if he gets into trouble with one of the Omega Elites,” Tim closes his eyes, not wanting to imagine that scenario but having no choice but to do it, “not even your influence can prevent him from getting scanned and collared.”

Bruce isn’t making a sound; a glimmer of pain cracking through his normally neutral facade, and Tim hates to be the one to put that expression on his face. But they need to address this, effective immediately, so Tim continues.

“He isn’t exactly a sweet, cute little buttercup, but we can all agree that we don’t want that happening to him, do we? A boy that young shouldn’t be—” Tim trails off, not wanting to describe the atrocity that is his society’s idea of dealing with feral Alphas. “To avoid that, he needs to be educated on how behave in our society in order to stay save. I fucking hate that we have to consider this idea, but this is for his own safety.”

The other occupants of the room are quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Tim knows that his idea isn’t without its fair share of flaws and risks; he’s practically risking his own, as well as Damian’s safety. There’s no way of knowing what might happen once you put an Alpha and an Omega in the same room. Tim is pretty confident of his strength and control over his instincts, but he has to admit that he doesn’t have a lot of experience when it comes to interacting with Alphas.

He’s determined not to let that particular weakness peeks through, because they don’t have the luxury of time on their hands. The wariness and anxiety have to be put in the backburner for now. He doesn’t like the idea of adding another burden on Bruce’s shoulders when he’s not even part of his pack.

Well, not yet, at least. He’d be some kind of an honorary member if Damian agrees to be ‘tutored’ by him.

“I don’t know if I like this idea, Tim. It poses a considerable amount of risk, and you’ll be throwing yourself in the middle of it,” Bruce confesses, and just behind him, Tim can see the way Dick and Jason are listening intently. The older man’s eyes are shrouded in a cloud of worry, but it only serves to make Tim more determined to do his job well. He needs to get this right or Bruce would start blaming himself again.

“Let me have fifteen minutes,” Tim tries, making sure to keep eye contact, “I’ll try talking to him. If my words don’t get through to him, we can dismiss the whole thing.”

“Okay,” Bruce agrees after a few beats, “fifteen, Tim.”

They’re both subtle, but Tim can feel Dick and Jason reacting to Bruce’s words. The lines of their bodies are prominently tighter, and Tim can see the way Dick reaches for Jason’s hand. When Jason’s fingers wound around Dick’s, Tim turns away from the display. He should give them some privacy.

“Good luck, son,” Bruce tells him, and Tim only smiles back at him because, yeah, he needs a lot of that, “and thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Bruce,” he claps a playful hand on Bruce’s bicep, “now get your sons out of here. They look like they’re about ready to chew through your expensive ass sofa. I’m grateful that they’re worried about me, but I’ll be fine, honest. Tell ‘em to get some air and maybe some time with each other; they’ll calm down that way.”

Bruce frowns at that, and looks down at Tim with something akin to—is that disbelief? Whatever for? Tim is more than sure that Bruce knows about Dick and Jason’s relationship.

“Tim, you—” Bruce begins, and then shuts his mouth, shaking his head as if he thought better of it. “No, nevermind. I’ll send Damian in for you, and I’ll try to get him to act civil, but the rest is up to you. Okay?”

Tim takes a deep breath to steady himself, and nods. “Okay.”

 

***

 

When his father led him out of the study and into the recreation room, Damian hadn’t expected the crystal eyed Omega to be waiting for them. He looks up at Bruce, and the Beta regards him with a quiet gaze that speaks of strength and perseverance—the characteristics that his mother has spoken of time and time again.

“Tim wants to talk to you,” Bruce informs, and Damian can feel a frown forming between is eyebrows. However, before he can voice out his objection, Bruce stops him with a hand on his upper arm. “It’s okay, son. If you have read the books and articles that I gave you, I know you have a lot of questions. Tim is an expert in the field, so give him a chance. And remember; be civil.”

With a final clap on his shoulder, Bruce makes his way out of the room, leaving Damian with the Omega. He’s still seated in the long armchair, observing his half empty cup of tea like it has captured his interest. Damian narrows his eyes and marches forward, plopping himself on the seat opposite the Omega. He doesn’t even look surprised by Damian’s sudden appearance; his only reaction a demure tilt of his head, and Damian is frustrated already.

He doesn’t know what to say, and it would wound his pride to apologize, so he settles for the obvious.

“I’ve been doing some reading,” he informs.

The Omega arches his eyebrow. “And?”

Such insolence. Damian aches to put his hand on that slender neck, force him down to _submit,_ but he sucks in a breath to try to calm his instincts. If what he’s been reading is to be taken into account, then there is a reason why this little Omega isn’t afraid to talk back to him.

“In your society, everything is backwards,” Damian grits out, clenching his hands, “Omegas are the ones considered as Elites, while Alphas...” He really, really doesn’t want to say it.

It seems like the other man reads through his reluctance, because those arctic blue eyes seem to lose a little bit of their cold edge. “You don’t have to say it,” he says, “it’s okay. It’s a horrid word, anyway.”

Damian doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. The person in front of him is an ‘Omega Elite,’ the one who belongs at the very top of the caste system. Damian might not know about the absurd role reversal that this country adopts, but ignorance is never an excuse for insolence. At the very least, where Damian is from, it won’t be tolerated.

“You are not offended?” he voices out, incredulous, “of how I treated you earlier?”

The Omega lifts one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “Nah. Actually, kinda, yeah, but we’re here to talk about that.”

To be under the scrutiny of those arctic blue eyes is a bizarre feeling, Damian notes, because he knows for a fact that the person in front of him is supposed to be an Omega. It is expected of them to be beautiful and subdued, but as much as the person in front of him fills the niche of the former, he thoroughly lacks the intrinsic submission that is supposed to be the telling quality of an Omega.

He regards Damian without an ounce of uncertainty, his eyes as sharp as they are fascinating. Damian meets his gaze with ferocity, but the other man barely reacts. He’s an anomaly; and Damian can’t decide if he wants the man to stay as far away as he can, or dissect him until he finds just what it is that makes him so different.

“You done glaring at me?” the man says, his voice as smooth, barely perturbed. He doesn’t wait for Damian’s response before speaking again, “first, introductions,” he says, “My name’s Tim Drake.”

“Drake,” Damian tests the syllable on his tongue, finding it to be too simple, almost crude. He lets his displeasure show, and it seems like the Omega in front of him catches on, because he winces almost apologetically.

“Yeah, maybe don’t go by that. That’s what people call my mother. How about,” he ponders aloud, eyes heavenward, “just Tim? Or Timothy? That sounds fancy enough for you?”

The other man’s tone is full of amusement even though Damian can’t understand just what seems to be so funny. He tries it, nonetheless, because he does need a name to address the Omega.

“Timothy,” Damian rolls the syllable with careful pronunciations, and he must admit, it’s much better than the alternative.

Timothy smiles, as if pleased with the arrangement. 

“Okay, that’s good,” he acquiesces, “mind if I call you Damian?”

The Alpha doesn’t look too happy about it, but he nods his assent.

“Now,” Timothy straightens up, and his gaze flickers to the table, where a tea set is perched, “this is gonna be sort of long. Do you want something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” he denies, properly, because he’s been raised with excellent mannerisms, “I’ve had some back in the study room. We may continue with the conversation.”

Timothy simply nods, and then, “It’s great that you’ve done some reading, so I don’t need to make introductions. Is it okay if I ask you a question?”

Damian levels him with steady eyes. When he speaks again, a hint of suspicion is coloring his tone. “That would entirely depend on the question, Timothy, but we might as well. Speak your inquiry.”

Timothy doesn’t bother with subtlety when he says, “Do you want to stay here?”

The Alpha doesn’t flinch in the wake of his question, but it’s a close thing. For a stretch of time that he doesn’t bother to measure, Damian casts his gaze toward their surroundings; the tall ceiling, the old, well-kept furniture, the high end television set at the end of the room. It may seem like a regular room at first glance, but for Damian, everything inside of these four walls—and beyond them, extending as far as the country lines—speaks of nothing but one word; foreign.

He refuses to feel fear—a person who bears the Al Ghul name isn’t _allowed_ to feel fear—and morphs his expression into one of perseverance.

“I do,” he says, firmly, “and I will.”

Timothy respects his answer by humming his understanding, and then he continues with the inquiries.

“I’ve seen the way you look at your father, Damian,” he observes, “He is a great man, isn’t he? Is he the reason why you want to stay?”

“You may say that. I have heard many great things about Father,” Damian admits, “one of the reasons why I am willing to leave home is to be able to learn from him. Despite the state of their relationship, Mother still holds utmost respect for him, and I had initially thought that she had the best interest in mind when she said that she was sending me to live with Father. Still, I cannot fathom why she would,” he pauses, looking for the right words without sounding too pathetic, “leave me in this godforsaken country without as much as a foreword.”

Timothy lets a small gasp leak out of his mouth, and Damian eschews trying to read his mind. He doesn’t want to associate the sympathy in Timothy’s eyes with his current predicament. As an Alpha who has gone through his first Rut, he is now considered an adult, and he certainly doesn’t need to be coddled by an Omega who—

“Damian,” Timothy calls, and Damian goes stiff when he catches a whiff of his scent. He takes in the smell, the faint purrs that originates from deep within the Omega’s throat, and Damian recognizes it as a technique that Omegas often use to soothe Alphas. Ever since their encounter in the main hall, this is the most Omega-like gesture that Timothy has shown. It’s clear that Timothy isn’t used to it; his scent is tinged with a hint of hesitancy, and his eyes are a bit too defiant to reflect submission, but the Alpha in Damian still thrives under the attention. He remembers what his grandfather once said; a flower in late bloom is the most beautiful one of all, and he can’t help but to integrate the essence of that saying onto the person in front of him. _A flower in late bloom,_ he finds himself thinking. How befitting. He’s so deep inside of his own head that he almost misses Timothy’s next words.

“I can’t begin to guess what your mother’s motives are, but now that you’ve decided that you want to stay here, I can offer you my assistance,” Timothy says, gesturing at himself, “I’ve asked Bruce to grant me tutoring sessions with you, in which we would have discussions about the concept of secondary genders and how to incorporate into the society as an Alpha, Beta, or Omega, without disturbing its balance.”

And just like that, his recently soothed instincts rear up again. “I have had enough of that when I was younger,” he protests.

“You treated me like an object to be claimed, Damian,” Timothy counters, “I don’t know what they taught you back at home, but your grasp of the topic is misleading and ignorant at best. Alphas don’t have the right to reign over Betas and Omegas, Betas don’t have the right to reign over Alphas and Omegas, and Omegas don’t have the right to reign over Alphas and Betas. This is my—and Bruce’s—stance on the conception of secondary genders, and we would like to introduce you to our way of thinking.”

The notion is so foreign in Damian’s head that he automatically blurts out, “We are separated by genders for a reason.”

“I agree,” Timothy, unexpectedly, assents, “a reason that goes far beyond the petty concept of superiority over others.”

“You are disillusioned to think that it is irrelevant in the forming and turning of the wheels of society.”

“I might be all that, but can you deny me this? Until one hour ago, you thought that your position as an Alpha would guarantee sovereignty and absolution, but that isn’t the case in this country, is it?” Damian sucks in a breath at that, stunned, “our secondary gender is ultimately the manifestation of biological structure, and it doesn’t guarantee power or absolution. As human beings, we are born to be, and should stay as _equals,_ Damian. The society is extremely dynamic, and the idea of letting biological traits control how we live in a highly functional social construct is as outdated as it is ridiculous. To achieve a position of power and control, one must endeavor and _thrive,_ not hide behind the guise of their secondary gender. That is the way it should be.”

Before Damian has a chance to form a dissenting opinion, Timothy opens his mouth once again.

“Listen, I’m not here to mold you or force you into anything,” Timothy continues, and there is that faint soothing scent again, “I’m here to help you ease into it. I can’t even begin to imagine just how hard it is to have to adjust to a new place, a new culture, and a new caste system all at the same time. If you choose to stay here, I would like to offer you my assistance to ease into the role. I don’t mean to imply that I’m your superior; my position as a tutor is based on the fact that I’ve lived my whole life in this society, and I have better understanding of how it works.”

At that moment, Damian recognizes why his father has chosen Timothy to be the spokesperson. The Omega has a profound understanding of the subject, and his way of speaking is efficient, professionally diplomatic, but also strangely empathetic. He knows the right words to say, and as stinted as he is in fulfilling his role as an Omega, his attempts have a sweet undertone to it, an element that Damian’s inner Alpha is fond of.

Perhaps, he thinks as he gazes upon Timothy’s sincere, open expression, perhaps he can give this man—this country—a chance. He may be the one who carries the blood—the rightful heir of the legacy—but he can’t deny that he’s also a newcomer. An image of the older Alphas (fully grown, strong, bearing years of history that Damian isn’t privy to) flits through his mind, and he clenches his fists in determination.

He has a lot to prove.

But first, he has to convince this Omega that he isn’t about to back away from the quest to prove his place within this house.

“Very well,” he begins in a boisterous voice. The idea of having to be subjected to lessons, which subject he isn’t familiar with, hits him a moment later. Almost reflexively, Damian scrunches his nose.

“...what exactly are you going to teach me,” he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper.

The change in Timothy’s demeanor in the wake of his hesitant consent is interesting to look at, because he’s surprisingly _expressive_ for someone with frigid, almost doll-like features. Damian has to resist the urge to let his jaw drop when a full-blown smile blooms on Timothy’s face, stretching the pink of his lips around rows of white teeth and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

He’s not the most beautiful Omega that Damian has laid his eyes on—his grandfather’s extensive harem is filled with only the best and the fairest—but his brand of charm is a rarity to be found, even among Omegas. And the fact that he seems to be oblivious of it is baffling and intriguing at the same time.

“Oh, God, that’s _great,_ ” Timothy lets out, shaking his head in disbelief. It seems like he didn’t mean to project that particular thought, because he clears his throat before finally answering Damian’s question.

“First, you have to understand that you need consent from others before you lay your hands all over them,” the Omega explains, and the idea of that is so alien in Damian’s ears that he cannot help but to oppose.

“But I am an—”

“Alpha. Believe me, I know. I can scent you, you know.”

Damian scowls, refusing to budge under Timothy’s shrewd gaze. “I do not wish to touch anyone, let alone _you._ ”

The Omega—Timothy—takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes for a moment, and Damian almost mourns the loss of the arctic blue depths. Timothy looks like he’s struggling with something—maybe anger or frustration, if the crease in the middle of his forehead is anything to go by—until he heaves a loud sigh and turns back to Damian.

“Okay, let’s put it like this,” Timothy begins, shifting in his seat and angling his body to fully face the young Alpha, “this is a primer, of sorts, so you can have a glimpse to what our sessions are going to be like. Interactions between genders aren’t based on servitude or status or privilege, Damian. It’s based on something as simple as reciprocation.” Those eyes are gazing at him again, and Damian hates the effect they have on him. Somehow, it becomes harder to focus, and as someone who values perfect control of his own body and mind, Damian finds those arctic blue orbs to be _distracting._

“If you don’t wanna touch me, then may I touch you?”

The admission is so abrupt and unexpected that Damian casts him a frosty glare. “What.”

He doesn’t know what Timothy interprets from his expression, but he does not like the gleam of amusement that he catches on the Omega’s eyes. “May I,” he begins again, slower this time, “touch you.”

“Does this have a purpose, because I have a feeling that you are just keen on wasting my time.”

Timothy doesn’t bother to reply, only puffs out a chuckle as he shakes his head. Damian follows his movement; the way his fingers reach for his cup of tea, the way his eyelashes shutter when he takes a sip, and the way he slides his eyes back to return Damian’s gaze, unwavering and calm as the deep waters. The Alpha steels himself as he comes to a conclusion; the person in front of him is patient, determined, and stubborn to a fault. These qualities are admirable, but would prove to be quite vexing if found on one’s adversary.

“Fine,” Damian hisses through clenched teeth. He lifts a hand, palm facing Timothy, and injects as much regality into his voice as he says, “you may touch.”

“Boops,” Timothy bumps his fist on Damian’s open palm, and the Alpha frowns.

“What is that?”

“That’s called a fist bump,” Timothy informs, and then his eyes go wide, “seriously, Damian, do you ever go out, like, ever?”

“Define ‘going out’.”

Timothy watches his face for a few seconds, and then shakes his head. “Uh, let’s save that question for later, okay? Oh, and by the way, thank you.”

Damian’s eyebrows climb up the cliff of his forehead. “Whatever for?”

“For trusting me,” Timothy answers simply, and Damian has a sneaking suspicion that he isn’t just referring to the fact that the Alpha has allowed him to touch. A touch that manifested in the form of that godforsaken fist bump—whatever that was. Damian twists his features when a thought occurs to him; isn’t this supposed to be a lesson on reciprocation?

“I wish to touch you, too,” he relays, and tells himself that it’s only a means to get even. Timothy seems astounded by his admission, but he only lets out a thoughtful hum before he finally lifts his hand, offering the limb to Damian.

“You may touch,” Timothy mimics what Damian said earlier, and despite being the one who initiated the contact, Damian falters. He has never needed an Omega’s consent to do anything before, and it’s more than a little disconcerting that he needs to start doing that now.

“Dude, c’mon,” Timothy encourages, clearly impatient, “it’s a really simple gesture, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you can’t handle it.”

The edge of mockery at the end of Timothy’s sentence makes Damian bristle, and he reflexively rises up to the challenge. He surges forward, swinging his hand forward so that his palm collides almost painfully with Timothy’s open one. The gesture produces a moderately loud slapping noise, but Timothy doesn’t seem the least bit troubled.

“That’s it,” Timothy assents, “that’s not so hard, right?”

The smile on Timothy’s face is wide and sincere, as if he’s wholly satisfied because of one simple, stupid gesture. He proceeds to retreat his hand, and Damian loathes admitting that he kind of misses the contact.

“You are,” Damian begins, and then hesitates for a split second, “bizarre. Incomprehensible. Peculiar. Unfathomable.”

“Is that, like, a thesaurus version of telling me I’m weird?” Timothy questions, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows.

At that moment, Damian feels something unfamiliar settling itself inside of his chest, plugging up his airway for a split second before he unconsciously decides to let it out. The laughter that forces itself out of his mouth is abrupt and unrestrained, surprising him and the Omega in front of him.

“Wow,” Timothy voices out, and then chuckles, “you don’t look like an absolute tool when you’re laughing. Do that more often, kiddo.”

Damian abruptly stops, schooling his expression into one of distaste. “I am not a kid.”

“And the tool is back.”

The Alpha doesn’t grace him with an answer. He scoffs and crosses his arms in front of his chest, straightening his posture to give an impression of grandiose. As expected, it doesn’t work on Timothy, who only chuckles in response.

Silence falls over them, and it’s surprisingly amicable. Timothy flashes him an unabashed grin, and Damian responds with one of his own before he can think of any better.

“I have a feeling that I will be able to tolerate your presence, Timothy.”

In response, Timothy grants him a soft laugh. His eyes are twinkling in mirth, and Damian finds himself getting lost in those depths once again, because the blue is unlike anything he has ever—

“Likewise,” Timothy suddenly says, pulling Damian out of his semi-trance, “don’t forget, though, Bruce has granted me the privilege of resorting to acts of discipline, if push comes to shove.” The Omega actually wiggles his eyebrows, as if he’s looking forward to abusing that privilege. “It comes with the whole tutelage package.”

Damian’s eyes bulge out for a second before an honest to God groan grates itself out of his throat. He forgets about his heritage and his lessons in mannerisms in favor of giving Timothy a sharp, unrestrained glare. (The Omega just bites his lip, as if restraining laughter, and God, just what did Damian do to deserve this _nightmare._ )

The younger man recalls every single positive thought that he has bestowed upon Timothy, and mentally takes everything back. This Omega is simply _infuriating,_ and that’s that.

 

***

 

“Hey, guys,” Tim greets, approaching the Alphas with a worn little smile on his face.

Dick scents him coming from afar, and he nudges Jason, who is leaning against the wall of the manor. The younger Alpha smoothes out the frown on his face when he sees Tim’s familiar form.

“Bruce told me that I’d found you here,” Tim says, gesturing to Dick and Jason’s favorite spot to hang around; a partially hidden patch of wall along the left wing of the manor, the area protected by shades of greenery surrounding them. For some reason, it is also the breeze’s favorite place to pass through, making it the perfect place to laze around, have a smoke, or even take a nap. Tim whistles, looking left and right to observe the ‘secret’ hideout. “Nice place.”

Jason smirks down at him. “Nice, innit? Dickie used to bring me here to hide whenever Bruce was being a boob.”

The laugh that forces itself out of Dick’s mouth is tinged with nostalgia. He reaches up a hand to ruffle Jason’s hair before he says, “it’s not much of a hiding spot, really. B knew about it— _of course he did_ —but he let us have the place to ourselves, anyway. He was, sort of still is, as Jason has so graciously put it, a boob. But he’s a great man where it counts.”

“I second that,” Tim announces before plopping his ass down on the grass without a care in the world. The Alphas look at him in amusement and decide to follow suit. The Omega watches them with mindful eyes before clearing his throat, readying himself for whatever it is that he’s about to tell them.

“So,” Tim starts, “I’ve talked to Damian, and he agreed to the whole tutoring thing,” the beginning of a smile tugs at the corners of Tim’s lips, “it’s quite unexpected, really, because I thought he’d be against the idea. But we had a surprisingly civil convo, and he actually agreed. Although...”

Jason frowns when Tim trails off. “Although?” he prompts.

Tim gives a lighthearted laugh, one that reminds Dick of the song that they used to play as background music to the carousel ride, back when he was still living in the circus. It’s a lovely sound, and the fact that _Damian_ is the one that pulls it out if Tim is making Dick’s stomach twist with something ugly.

“I might have pissed him off with my parting speech,” Tim admits, “it’s nothing serious, though, I promise. Kinda funny, actually, how his face changed from being all Zen guru to projecting brat extraordinaire in a drop of a hat.”

Under normal circumstances—if Damian wasn’t an Alpha, if Dick didn’t acknowledge the strength behind the boy’s eyes, if Tim wasn’t a potential mate for the true heir of the Wayne house—Dick would have laughed. As it is, this doesn’t count as normal circumstances, so Dick tightens his jaw and levels Tim with somber eyes.

“Timmy,” he reprimands, “why would you do that? It’s never a great idea to provoke an Alpha, Tim, and you of all people should know this.”

The Omega visibly wavers, obviously not expecting this development. He gathers himself rather quickly, and lets his eyes slide over the Alphas before he starts speaking.

“He’s an adolescent Alpha, Dick,” Tim reasons, “you remember how you used to be during that period, don’t you? He’s gonna go through a lot of things, face a lot of changes, and I don’t want him to lose that spark somewhere along the line,” he plays with the hem of his jacket, clearly trying to calm his nerves, “we’re here to help him shape himself to be a sensible and respectable Alpha, and I want to make sure that by the end of it, he still carries his inherent characteristics. I don’t want him to murder his personality for the sake of being an ‘ideal’ Alpha.”

Dick understands the logic, but there are ways of doing that without putting Tim in apparent danger.

“I get where yer comin’ from, babe,” Jason finally joins in, his voice rougher than usual, “but you gotta be more vigilant, yeah? It’s nice of ya to be thinkin’ about ‘im, but don’t forget ‘bout yerself, Timmers.”

“Yes,” Dick chimes in, “he’s a budding Alpha, Tim, more aggressive and considerably strong even at that age. I feel ridiculous saying this to you because you’re supposed to be the expert, but please don’t take offence when I say that you need to be more careful around Alphas.”

Tim blinks for a few beat, chewing on his lip as he takes in what the Alphas have said. When he finally returns the Alphas’ attentive gazes, the blues of his eyes are tinted with a touch of remorse.

“I will, guys,” he finally sighs out, “sorry, I was just. I thought that was the right way to do it and maybe, just maaaaaaybe, I just wanted to gauge a reaction out of him.”

Dick and Jason let out collective chuckles, amused by this carefree, slightly cunning side of Tim. “And why’s that?” Jason asks around a grin.

“Simple,” Tim is grinning now, and the gleam in his eyes reflects childish mischievousness, “he’s intriguing and his reactions are really amusing.”

And just like that, the mood shifts once again. Dick tries not to project his emotions onto his gestures, but he has underestimated the intensity of his own jealousy, especially when the emotion is integrated with the raw instincts of the Alpha within him.

He doesn’t consider himself to be a jealous lover, but maybe that’s mostly due to his very limited experience with said sentiment. His relationship with Jason has lasted a long time—ultimately, the only relationship that he can see himself having until his very last moments—and somehow, they always find themselves gravitating toward one another. As a result of that, Dick has no doubt in his heart that Jason would always come home to him, just as he would.

Tim is a different case altogether. Even though they have started the courting attempts, there really is no way of knowing if they would bear fruit. The uncertainty is making his inner Alpha restless, and he struggles not to let it show on the surface. He made that mistake, back when they were talking in the recreation room. He wouldn’t do that again.

“What did you, um,” Dick begins carefully, and then, in a much smaller voice, “do with him?”

He could have phrased the question better, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to care at this point. The curiosity is threatening to eat him from the inside, and the only way to stave it off is by being straightforward.

Tim gapes like a fish for a full five seconds, clearly not expecting the question or the underlying meaning behind it, before answering in a flurry of sentences. “We just talked, guys, I swear,” Tim tries, “nothing weird or life threatening, just some boring talk about the tutoring sessions, what kind of discussions we’re going to have, and we also did the reciprocal touching stuff, and—”

“You did the _what,_ ” Jason is the one to project an unfiltered reaction. Predictably, the word _touch_ hits a nerve; the younger Alpha’s expression bears a mixture of confusion and jealousy and a hint of hurt, rising to the fore without preamble. The veins of his neck are almost visible, straining against the surface of his skin, and Dick can sympathize.

Tim flickers his gaze left and right, as though he’s searching for an opening to up and _run._ Dick purses his mouth, because they don’t want a repeat of what happened earlier today.

“Jay,” in an attempt to pacify the situation, Dick curls his hand on Jason’s shoulder, surreptitiously rubbing the tense muscles he finds there. “If it’s not too much trouble, Tim, can you please explain to us what _reciprocal touching_ is, and just _why_ you think it’s necessary.”

The Omega’s breathing hasn’t returned to its usual steady rhythm, so his clarification is delivered in a rush of words. “Oh my God, it’s a. It’s a lesson? Sort of? I just wanted to show him the concept of reciprocation; that consent is important in an interaction, regardless of gender and status. It was kind of weird, but I think he got it. It’s enough for introductions, I think.”

The silence that follows is only broken by the occasional whoosh of the wind, rustling the leaves. Dick doesn’t know what to make of that explanation, because touching is still _touching,_ and even though Tim thinks that the gesture is meant to be educational, there’s no telling how Damian regards the privilege.

It’s a privilege, dammit, because it’s just as Tim said; consent is important in an interaction between genders. Not even Jason and Dick have had the privilege of being at the end of said consent, so how _dare_ that brat—

“Dude, don’t tell me you guys are jealous,” the Omega finally breathes out, an unexpected yet dreaded observation.  

Dick bristles, squaring his shoulders. “Isn’t that ob—”

Dick’s sentence is cut off by Tim clapping his hands together, as if in the middle of a revelation.

“It’s kind of bound to happen, now that I think about it,” Tim mutters, hand on his chin, “I’m gonna be a pseudo-member of your pack, and seeing as I’d be the only Omega within your midst, well,” he shrugs, paying no attention to how Dick and Jason are practically gawking in front of him, “Alphas in a pack need to keep it all balanced, right?”

After laying out his deduction, Tim stretches out his hands, palms out, repeating the gesture that he used on Damian. His eyes are pale, crystalline blue when he grins up at Jason and Dick.

“You may touch,” he says, airy and playful. His hands are stretched in front of him, palms up, an invitation, an offering for both Alphas to _touch,_ and Dick can feel his brain short-circuits. As the higher function of his brain slows down, the Alpha in him rears its head. It makes mental growls and snarls inside of his mind, telling him to _touch take claim,_ and he shoves those urges down as soon as he regains clarity.

He glances to his left to find an open mouthed Jason, most likely parroting Dick’s own expression and state of mind.

Dick has a moment of disorientation, because is Tim really that oblivious? He possesses one of the sharpest minds that Dick has ever known, but is he really that dull when it comes to things like attraction and displays of affection? Dick has had his fair share of dealing with emotionally stinted people ( _cough_ Bruce _cough_ ) so he knows that it may very well be genuine obliviousness, but he can’t help but to feel that there’s something else—

“I give up,” Jason abruptly says, and Dick watches as reaches out his hand, meeting Tim’s in the middle. The older Alpha’s vision is hyper focused to the tangle of their fingers that he almost misses Jason’s next sentence. “Timmy, Timmy, what did we just say ‘bout bein’ careful ‘round Alphas? And here y’are offerin’ these pretty fingers for me to maim.”

As if proving his seriousness, Jason leans forward to put his face near their joined hand, his mouth inches away from Tim’s fingers. His voice carries the usual rough, smoky quality, but the lines of his features reflect easy humor. Tim reacts in a confusing mix of bashfulness (the flush on his cheeks is a dead giveaway) and playful annoyance (he’s rolling his eyes so hard that Dick’s afraid they won’t return to their original position).

“You would be seriously threatening if I didn’t know for a fact that you read The Little Prince, Jay,”

The sound of Jason’s cackle is pushed to the back of Dick’s mind because he’s still looking at the way Jason and Tim look against one another. The contrast of Jason’s sunburnt, freckled forearm with Tim’s rice pale skin is _captivating,_ and it spurs Dick into action.

“Oh, hell,” he murmurs, “might as well.”

Taking advantage of Tim’s distraction, he quickly grabs the Omega’s other hand and allows himself an instant to admire the sheer size difference. It brings a smile to his lips; his worries and uncertainty briefly cast aside as he enjoys the feel of Tim’s skin against his.

Dick’s grin is all cockiness and mirth, a merry curve of his mouth when he says, “gotcha. Or is it the other way around?”

Tim laughs when he realizes that Dick is implying that the Omega is the one who catches them both, and shakes his head. “A lesson in reciprocation, remember?” He gives the Alphas’ hands a squeeze, “so it’s more along the lines of ‘we caught one another.’”

The line is the sort of corny that makes Dick roll his eyes, a gesture that he does in an attempt to hide the corresponding roll of his stomach. Dick knows for a fact that touching is supposed to make you feel warm—shared body heat and all that—but he can’t help but to imagine the way warmth blooms on the point of contact, only to travel along his arm, down his chest, to finally settle onto his chest.  

“This is sorta nice,” Tim observes, and Dick has to hold in an excited shriek because _Timmy returns the sentiment, holy shit._ The younger man is now shaking his hands, making the Alphas’ arms jiggle with the movement, “very constricting in terms of mobility, but also kind of nice.”

Jason waggles his eyebrows at him, “yeah, well, prepare yerself, sugar, ‘coz we’re gonna demand these things from now on.”

“Dude, you guys are like, _loaded,_ ” Tim says, leaning forward as if to illustrate his point, “I should make this a business or something. How much should I charge for holding hands? Five bucks? Oh man, I’m gonna charge so high for hugs, maybe fifteen bucks every five minutes... Damn, I can buy a new lego set.”

Dick almost chokes on his own spit, because _hugs with Timmy._ From beside him, Jason barks out an incredulous guffaw. “Yer a riot, babe, ya know that, right?”

“Mmm,” Tim hums, nodding dramatically, “I should ditch the whole scientist thing and become a comedian, don’t you think?”

Dick sniggers, “well, as long as you don’t die tonight, in New York...”

The Omega slaps his hand away, the movement so abrupt that Dick panics for a few embarrassing seconds until he sees the way Tim’s expression pinches almost comically. The older man laughs at the adorable display, moving his hand to ruffle through Tim’s hair before he can stop himself. Tim, predictably, tries to swat his hand away (again) as he mumbles, “did you just make a Watchmen reference.”

“I love that run, babe, so sue me,” Dick grins, easy as ever, “the best comics were released back in the eighties so all of you younglings,” he wiggles the pointer finger of his free hand at Jason and Tim, “have to respect the _gem_ that also marks the beginning of the modern age of comic books.”

“Dickie, you ain’t that _old,_ why d’ya always sound like yer the oldest person in the room, fuck,” Jason complains, flexing his fingers so Tim can feel the many callouses decorating the digits, “ya make me feel like I’m dating a Grandpa n’ that ain’t happenin’, alrite?”

“Well, I’m old enough to know that the movie adaptation is shi—”

“Ohh, don’t start.” It’s Jason’s turn to point a finger at Dick, “WB is to blame for that pile o’ horse dung so don’tcha dare talk shit ‘bout my Zack.”

Tim’s eyes go big at that, and it’s clear as day that he’s holding in a hysterical howl. “ _My_ Zack?”

“Jay,” Dick placates in a tone that suggests that he has gone through this discussion too many times, “just because he’s your boss doesn’t mean he’s _yours_ yours, okay?”

Jason has the decency to pause, as if contemplating Dick’s logic, but only shrugs at the end. “Nah. The whole crew has a collective claim on that man so y’all can eat yer palms.”

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Who died and made ya the boss of me, Dickie?” Jason asks, saccharine sweet, even though the canine peeking through his smile tells a different story.

Tim watches the exchange with wide eyes, feeling like an intruder that’s been cordially invited; because somewhere between the argument, Dick has picked his hand back up, tangling their fingers together again.

“Wow,” he sighs out, “are you guys always this noisy?”

Their heads turn to face him, eerily simultaneous, and Dick whines a, “But, baby,” just as Jason blurts out, “He started it, sugar,” to defend himself.

The scene is so ridiculously comical that Tim bursts out laughing. It comes out of him in waves of unbridled joy, a giggle that builds up to a full blown chortle, as loud as it is infectious. There’s nothing pretty or cute about it—Timmy actually snort-laughs, and it sounds like someone is torturing Donald Duck—but Dick and Jason find themselves momentarily dazzled by the sight and sound.

“Oh, shoot,” Tim says, breathless with mirth, “what kind of pack did I get myself into?”

“Please, babe,” Jason drawls, “it’s the one with the only uncollared Alphas in Gotham City. That makes ya the most badass Omega to ever Elite, yeah?”

Tim lets out a thoughtful sound. “Or one with a target behind his back. Seriously, man, I gotta start sweeping tall buildings for snipers because your fanclub?” He fixes the Alphas with a mock-glare, “is as ruthless as it is extensive. Not to mention filthy rich, yikes.”

“Meh,” Dick brushes off, “pretty sure you can karate chop them all without problem.”

“Preach,” Tim blurts out, “kinda wanna stay out of jail, though. At least until I’ve made sure that every single one of those collars is burned to ashes.”

The three of them share another moment of joy, laughing their heart out in a quiet corner that bears nostalgic values to Dick and Jason. Dick smiles as he takes in the combined sound of their happiness, feeling his heart expand when he realizes that another memory, one that has Tim in it, etches itself along these walls.

When Tim finally lets go with a sheepish grin, Dick feels the absence all too acutely. Strangely, he doesn’t feel a sense of loss; only determination to be able to bask in the moment again—to bask in the Omega’s _everything._ He sneaks a glance at Jason only to find that the other Alpha already has his eyes on him. They share a quiet moment of nonverbal communication, and Dick _knows_ that Jason’s train of thought doesn’t stray far from his.

They’re going to carry on with their courting, and if Tim was actually that oblivious, then he and Jason have to work harder to convince him that they’re serious about him. However, if it was all a ruse to hide something underneath, something that the Omega is hiding in plain sight behind easy smiles and witty comebacks, then, well. It’s another bullet to add on their already long list, and Dick welcomes the addition. He has Jason by his side, and there’s nothing they can’t achieve as long as they have each other’s backs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank u my pals if u make it to the end of the chapter w/o throwing ur phone/pc bc this is.......ridiculously long :””)) also!! I’m here to address some things ehe:
> 
> 1\. This chapter is so full of both science n social mumbo jumbo n not much action (also a lot of talking?? Holy shit they talked A Lot) *hides face in hands* I’m sorry but I hope I conveyed everything pretty well?? Pls don’t hesitate to comment if u wanna ask me anything :””))
> 
> 2\. I’m being super vague w/ Jay’s job akdhdkf sorry abt that but I’ll explain it in the upcoming chapters I promise :’D For now, let’s just say that he’s (predictably) in filmmaking industry ;)))
> 
> 3\. Um. I love Ra’s Al Ghul...? I have ideas on how to integrate him into this story but nothing solid yet lmao do we have fellow Demon’s Head lover around here?
> 
> 4\. And before u ask: No babes, Damian isn’t here to be a competition—he does like Tim’s eyes, though, kind of obsessively so. He’s a reminder of some sorts, that Jay n Dick aren’t the only Alphas who find Tim to be pleasantly intriguing. So. Better speed up their plans ;)
> 
> Also!! I just realized an ongoing theme w/ this work. It seems like I subconsciously put plot on chapters with odd numbers, and smut on chapters with even numbers,, so yall know what’s coming next,,,!!!!
> 
> (No guys I’m kidding I haven’t decided if I’m gonna put smut for the next update but...............I just might ehe) Thank u for reading loves n pls tell me what u think! ;)
> 
> Hmu on twitter babes ;) [@timmydraqe](https://twitter.com/timmydraqe)


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